


Our Time in Eden

by Karinshastha



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, amberprice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 20:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 114,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karinshastha/pseuds/Karinshastha
Summary: When Rachel Amber, Blackwell Academy's most popular and arguably most eligible student, ambushes lone wolf Chloe Price twice in two days, Chloe gets the sneaking suspicion that her life is about to change no matter what she says or does.Chloe and Rachel spend the next three years figuring out what's to become of them as they try to escape small-town Oregon for the sunny shores of California, home to Rachel Amber and Barbie and everything that isn't Arcadia Bay, a place that took Chloe's father, her childhood friend, and, if she sticks around long enough, maybe even Chloe.As soon as she and Rachel graduate from high school, they're getting the hell out of there. But, as someone once said, life is what happens while you're making other plans.





	1. Chapter 1

My fist grazes the cheekbone of some skeevy asshole sporting a broken beer bottle whose face looks like his neck threw up and right into the middle of our limp-dick standoff walks Rachel fucking Amber, Blackwell’s blond-haired Barbie doll valedictorian prom queen rock star. She grabs me around the waist and tries to pull me out of the brawl, but Baseball Hat Guy shoulder-checks her off me. I knee him in the balls, causing him to bend over at the waist and damn near cough up his lungs onto the wooden planks of the rafters overlooking the concert stage. Out of nowhere, Skinny Guy clocks me right in the eye and is about to swing at me with his jagged-edged bottle when Rachel kicks it out of his hand, Karate Kid style. He’s looking at her like _you did not just do that_ and after Rachel kicks him in the nutsack with the laces of her Converse shoe, he’s looking at the floorboards like _holy shit, you did just totally do that_. Rachel gives me a Cheshire Cat grin that looks like it’s supposed to be reassuring—I grab her hand and run her toward the top of the staircase, pulling on the collar of her black jean jacket as she stares at the two dudes clutching their groins. Before we bail, I blow the pair of assholes a kiss that automagically turns into a middle finger. My body has a habit of doing these things without even bothering to consult my brain.

“Come on!” I say.

We almost crash into the wall of the landing as I hustle her down the steps and straight into the waiting arms—or should I say torso?—of Frank, who’s looking at me pretty funny for someone who just got paid everything he was owed, so much so that I’m now back on the mailing list of the _Medicinal Mary Jane Monthly_.

“Shouldn’t you be looking happier?” I say. “I totally just hooked you up.”

“The only thing that’s getting hooked up right now is you with trouble,” he says.

Rachel pulls on my hand. Frank crosses his arms and looks past me. The two dudes from upstairs walk down the rickety steps bow-legged.

“What the fuck were you doing up there?” asks Frank.

“That’s what happens when you decide to play hacky sack and forget to wear protection,” I say.

Frank frowns at me, which isn’t saying much because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. That about-to-rob-a-bank black ski-mask hat he’s wearing doesn’t exactly help his image, either.

“Fuck you, bitch!” says Skinny Guy. “You spilled my fucking beer!”

“Right,” I say, “because the normal, well-adjusted response to a teenage girl’s apology for bumping your beer is to follow her upstairs, break a glass bottle in half, and start swinging. You know what I’m talking about, right, Frank?”

Frank stares at Rachel like she owes him money. Rachel smiles back at him. My insides feel hot.

“No,” says Frank. He sits down on the ratty couch that serves as his underworld throne. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Frank. I didn’t start it.”

“Not my fucking problem.”

Frank won’t take his eyes off Rachel. So much so that he doesn’t even see the knife hurtling end over end past my head and into the wooden post next to me. Skinny Guy is left-handed and throws like a mutant.

A dude in sunglasses holding the leash to a mean-looking pit bull smokes a cigarette like this is the most normal thing in the world. A blonde and her date rest their heads on the table next to us, trashed out of their minds, oblivious to the action unfolding a few steps away from them. Meanwhile, Rachel looks like she’s thinking about prying the dagger loose from its perch next to my face. Right as she’s about to pull the blade out of the post, I yank her arm away and remove the shank with a grunt. Skeleton man has some fucking arm strength. Rachel, I’m not so sure about. I toss the knife handle-first into Frank’s lap—Frank no longer has a lap because he’s already standing up. He catches the blade handle with a cool-looking swipe, gives Rachel one last dirty look, and rounds on the two guys. They get quiet real fast.

“Back off!” Frank bellows.

He starts waving the knife around in front him, conducting an air symphony for a captive audience of two who want nothing to do with the music Frank’s making. He shuffles them backwards through the mill, all the way back to the entrance guarded by that tattooed Samoan dude with flowers on his motorcycle who thought I was cute when I threatened to burn down his mill with an army of robot ninjas and a mechanical dragon. The dude with the pitbull and the shades just nods and smiles when Frank whips the knife into the wall six inches from his head.

“We should disappear, too,” says Rachel.

She leads me by the hand toward a narrow hallway that funnels sweaty bodies toward the main stage, ground floor, the place I originally wanted to be when I got here but couldn’t because there were too many shank-toting, beer-swilling shit-stains blocking the way to the mosh pit. I grip the corner of the hallway as Rachel tugs on my arm—Frank pulls the dagger out of the wall and holds it up to Skinny Guy’s face.

“You got my overdue library books?” is what I imagine him saying.

Firewalk is just starting up their next song. The guitar chords shred through my skin, the bass line vibrates my bones, and the drums beat in time with the pounding of my heart. The only thing stopping me from thrashing is Rachel and her hands gripping both sides of my unzipped hoodie. She looks like she’s about to kiss me, and then she lets go and starts throwing her body around: dark eyeliner, a black jacket with a skull patch, studded armbands, and shredded jeans lose themselves in an audience with a thousand moving parts. Even though she’s rocking out like time and space don’t exist, she doesn’t leave my sight or my thoughts or my goddamn hips for the rest of the night. Her sweaty body floats around the dance floor, taking up all of the space and making every single other person here invisible, irrelevant, non-existent.

“Chloe?”

“Whoa, shit.”

“Let’s take a picture.”

_Click._

We step outside into misty rain whipped around by swirling winds. A half-moon floats in the night sky over the woods, our home away from home for the evening. We link arms and run between trees in the dark, not caring whether we face-plant or take a branch of pine needles to the face. We make it to the dirt road that leads back to town, where the open sky showers us with a chilly downpour. I take in Rachel’s angel face with my eyes. She smiles back, blows me a kiss, and runs off into the night. I wave to her pony tail.

When I get home, I take off my jeans and think about Rachel’s messy blond up-do until I’m relaxed enough to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Rachel just so happens to run into me at the front doors of Blackwell Academy’s main building the morning after the concert, I ask myself whether she hasn’t been stalking me on purpose, just waiting for me to stroll up so she could put me on her arm and show me off to all her Drama Lab co-conspirators. The smile on her face sets my mind into overdrive.

“Oh, good!” she says. “You’re here.”

Once again, Rachel’s taking me by the arm and pulling me. This time, it’s toward a performance I’m not so sure about: Mr. Keaton’s rehearsal of _The Tempest_ , an upcoming play being staged by the academy’s amateur acting troupe. Chief among the drama queens and kings is Hayden Jones, a clean-cut, laid back dude who’s so laid back he can’t remember his lines. He’s too busy staring at Dana Ward, a pom-pom-swishing cheerleader whose tightly pulled back auburn hair and one-size-too-small bra tend to attract all kinds of attention—the kind of attention Dana doesn’t mind.

“Hayden!” says Mr. Keaton. “You’ve had weeks to be off book. You’re killing me.”

“Sorry,” says Hayden.

“Mr. Keaton,” says Rachel, “sorry to interrupt, but does this look better? I had my mom take it in a bit.”

Rachel does a little pirouette, showing off a form-fitting midnight blue costume with red trim and little chunks ripped out of it here and there. The stage manager doubles as the costume designer and has a thing for stylishly messy get-ups without shoes, so Rachel’s barefoot—did Rachel just wink at me?

“Meow,” says Dana, making a little cat claw in the air with her hand. “Looking good, Rach.”

“Very cool,” says Hayden.

“Exquisite, as always,” says Mr. Keaton with a sigh.

“Mr. Keaton,” says Dana, “I’m still having trouble with ‘My affections are then most humble; I have no ambition to see a goodlier man.’ I mean, does she really mean that?”

“Yeah,” says Hayden, “especially since I just straight up told her I’ve been banging all the ladies.”

“That _is_ hard,” Rachel says to me. She puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls my hip into hers. “We’ve talked about that line forever. We need a fresh perspective. The question is: are Miranda’s feelings of instant passion for Ferdinand just inexperience and dramatic circumstance, or has she actually just met the love of her life?”

“Falling in love is stupid,” I say, mostly to myself. I can’t stop staring at Dana’s cleavage. “What is she, twelve?”

“She’s fifteen,” says Mr. Keaton. “So your point about her naiveté is well taken.”

Rachel’s slender fingers gently turn my chin and lips and eyes to face a pair of sparkling emerald irises that paralyze my mind and body.

“Then again,” I say, “when you meet someone who’s going to change your life, I guess you just know it. And if you have parents coming to see the show, at twenty bucks a pop it had better be true love.”

“Wow,” says Dana. “A romantic and a cynic. That actually helps me. Thanks.”

Rachel’s hand moves to the small of my back. Somewhere inside me, a volcano threatens to erupt. And then the class bell sounds with an obnoxious machine gun buzz that’s loud enough to wake the dead. Eight grand a year to go to this place and they still insist on running it like a dumpy public school. It’s enough to clear out the Drama Lab, leaving just me, Rachel, and the mischievous grin on her face.

“I need to change,” she says. “Would you mind grabbing my belt from my backpack and bringing it to me?”

Before I can answer, Rachel trots off through the dressing room’s invisible door and disappears. I get down on one knee and prepare to pry into her personal life—I mean, her backpack—when my phone buzzes.

[5/7/2010 10:55AM] Eliot: Just saw the pics of the Firewalk concert. Wish I could have been there.  
[5/7/2010 10:55AM] Chloe: we thrashed so hard, it was awesome  
[5/7/2010 10:56AM] Eliot: We? Oh, you mean the punk girl you took a selfie with? Your girlfriend?  
[5/7/2010 10:56AM] Chloe: nah, just a friend. Rachel Amber.  
[5/7/2010 10:56AM] Eliot: The social butterfly? Jealous!  
[5/7/2010 10:57AM] Chloe: you should be…gonna go hang with her now  
[5/7/2010 10:57AM] Eliot: Promise to tell me all about it, okay?  
[5/7/2010 10:58AM] Chloe: uh ok  


I unclasp the loop holding shut the flap of her expensive-looking, square-shaped, black mini-pack. The wind goes out of my sails at the sight of a bunch of boring textbooks and note pads. The first interesting item I find is a picture of mini-Rachel with a tall, thin, brown-haired guy in front of a mountain. A note on the back says “Me and Dad at Mount Hood.” The second item of interest I find is her belt. The third and probably most interesting thing I find is Rachel behind a zig-zagging standing partition in her jeans and bra.

“Oh,” she says. “Did you bring flowers for my dressing room?”

“No, just this belt. I guess I’ll have to owe you.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“This place is kinda cool,” I say as I run my eyes over an assortment of stuff you might find at a high-end yard sale. “I like the Christmas lights strung up around the edges of the mirrors.”

Rachel laughs. “They’re there to remind you that you’re a star, just in case you forget who you are after putting on all that makeup. Yours looks fabulous, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just kidding. That asshole really clocked you.”

“Oh, yeah. Good thing you showed up or I might be wearing even more makeup.”

“You looked like you were holding your own well enough. I was just there to lend moral support.”

“You mean you were just there to _thrash_? That action was fucking amazing. That’s the first time I’ve seen Firewalk live.”

“It was totally awesome. We’ll have to do it again some time.” Rachel finishes putting her shirt on. “That _is_ one hell of a battle scar, though. Want me to cover it up for you?”

“Can you? My mom and her jackass boyfriend wouldn’t shut up about it this morning.”

“Hold still,” says Rachel. She grabs a sponge from a makeup set on one of the vanity shelves and dabs concealer onto my face. “I take it you’re not as in love with your mom’s crush as she is?”

“Hell no.” I wince when she runs her fingers over my cheekbone. “They’ve only been dating for a couple months and that jarhead is already moving his stuff in. His head is literally shaped like a jar.”

Rachel laughs through her nose. “I don’t doubt it.” She runs a hair brush over my skin. “Done.”

I look in one of the dressing room mirrors. Chloe Price never had a black eye.

“Holy shit,” I say.

“I take pride in my handiwork,” Rachel says.

“No, I meant that’s a lot of makeup.”

Rachel slaps me on the shoulder playfully.

“I, uh, kinda wish you could have done my makeup before the concert,” I say.

“If you had been done up, maybe those two guys would have left you alone.”

“Yeah, that would have kicked ass. I mean, it did kick ass. I just think maybe we should confine our ass-kicking to the mosh pit.”

“Are you sure about that? If I hadn’t joined you upstairs, we might never have partied together. And when I went to bed last night, I wouldn’t have found myself wishing the party never had to end.”

“It would be awesome if it didn’t have to.”

“It doesn’t. How would you like to join me on a little field trip?”

“Are you serious? Where do Honors students go when they cut class?”

“Anywhere but here. Are you in?”

“Fuck yes. I was born to ditch.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”


	3. Chapter 3

Instead of taking a bus or a taxi or walking like normal people would, Rachel decides that the best way for us to travel is to run alongside a moving train and jump up into one of the boxcars, like the bad guys do in those old Western movies when they’re robbing a locomotive. Usually what ends up happening is that there are lots and lots of passengers with expensive necklaces and watches and purses for them to snatch, along with a safe being guarded by some dude who’s just getting paid to shovel coal into a furnace. Me and Rachel? We get a bunch of crates.

“Where does this thing go?” I ask.

“North?” says Rachel. “Maybe we’ll end up in Seattle.” She sits down on top of a crate. “Pull up a chair, Price. The view is amazing.”

I cop a squat on top of the least shitty wooden coffin and watch dense clumps of evergreen trees pass by. I’ve seen this stuff every single day since I was a little girl, but looking at it through an open boxcar door on a moving train in the company of an angel-haired conductor makes me feel like I’m doing it for the first time. I have to put my hands underneath my legs to stop them from shaking. I wish Max were here so I could ask her whether this is nervousness or excitement or anxiety.

“So,” I say. “Nice Rachel we’re having.”

“What?”

“I mean weather. Nice weather we’re having.”

“It sure is. It’s nice to get a break from the rain once in a while.”

Fir and spruce and cedar trees float past us.

“I didn’t mention it earlier,” I say, “but you seem to have some sort of Jedi mind powers over Mr. Keaton and the acting crew.”

“I guess you could say I’m good with people.” She waves her hand in front of her dramatically. “ _You will get on this train with me._ ”

“Well, shit.” I laugh. My hands aren’t so jittery, now.

“You must be wondering what we’re doing out here,” she says.

“Yeah, the thought did occur to me. What reason would Rachel Amber have for skipping out of Blackwell Academy? You’re practically high school royalty there.”

“You don’t know me. But we’re going to remedy that.”

“We are?”

“Yep. I think we should play Two Truths and a Lie. It’s a game where each person offers up three facts about themselves, two of which are the truth and one of which is…”

“…a lie?”

“Right. And then the other person has to guess which is which.”

“Sounds fun. You’re on.”

“I’ll start.”

Rachel gets down off her crate and sits on the floor.

“Which hand do you use?” I ask.

“Well…that’s not how it’s played, but we’ll do it your way. For your information, I’m ambidextrous.”

She shows me both of her hands.

“Where are you from?”

“I was born in New York, the land of fashion and Broadway, to which I will one day return when my heinous exile here in Arcadia Bay comes to an end.”

She flips her hair dramatically. Looks like she’s tossing pasta.

“Has your V-card been stamped?” I ask.

“Whoa.”

“I just wanted to see the look on your face. Too far?”

Rachel looks at the passing scenery, then back at me.

“I don’t know. My third fact that I’m a Leo.” She makes a cat claw with her hand. “Meow.”

“Ambidextrous, born in New York, and a Leo. Gotcha.”

“So, which is the lie?”

“You seem more like a Cali girl to me.”

“Damn, Price! Not bad. Is it because we just met yesterday and we’re telling each other our deepest, darkest secrets?”

“Uh, no.”

“You must have seen me shivering under my umbrella on the way to school in the morning.”

“No. It’s because you remind me of Barbie. Isn’t Barbie from California?”

“Yes…yes, she is. Malibu, to be exact. Not far from Long Beach where I was born and raised. West Coast is the best coast.”

“I’ve only ever lived in Oregon, so I have nothing to compare it to, I guess.”

“We’ll have to change that one day, won’t we? Your turn.”

I get down off my crate and sit on the floorboards not far from Rachel.

“Okay,” I say. “First fact: I once broke my hand punching Stephanie Kowalski in the fifth grade.”

“No way,” says Rachel.

“Bitch took my Yoo-hoo. Knocked her the fuck out. Second, I used to love country music when I was a kid. Now it makes me want to throw up.”

“Weird.”

“Third, I’m allergic to cats. Sorry, Miss Leo.”

“Meow,” says Rachel, doing her best to sound like a sad kitty cat. “You’re hella mysterious, Chloe Price, but I think I have your number.”

“Hella? Who says that?”

“It’s a Cali thing. Now, about this broken hand story. After last night’s action at the concert, I don’t doubt that you would knock Stephanie Kowalski out. But you didn’t get that scar from punching someone—that scar is from a distal radius fracture.”

“Holy shit. Are you a physician or something?”

“No, but I did break my wrist when I was ten. I was fascinated by the medical terminology in the doctor’s reports.” She takes my hand. “Point is, I know the scar you’ve got comes from breaking your wrist when you fall…like from a skateboard?”

“Wow. Did my punches at the concert really look that weak?”

“No, you looked like a total badass. If you had broken your wrist punching Stephanie Kowalski, she’d probably be dead and you’d be in jail.”

“I had no idea I was going up against Sherlock Holmes. And here I thought I was a good liar.”

“Good thing you’re pretty,” she says. My face flushes. My hands are jittery again. “On the subject of your alleged cat allergy, I’m calling lie. I’ve passed by your locker a few times, and I’ve seen that old photo of a cat you keep in there.”

“His name was Bongo. He was a gift from my dad.”

“Did he pass away?”

“Yeah, my dad died two years ago. I thought everyone knew that.”

“No, I meant Bongo.”

“Oh my god, of course that’s what you meant. Sorry.” I put my hand to my face. “Awkward moment of the year?” I peek at her through my fingers.

“Definitely,” Rachel says with a laugh. “And finally, country music. I don’t know why it makes you throw up, but I think it’s probably true. And to be honest, that’s the one puzzle piece I couldn’t find a spot for.”

“My dad used to love country music.”

I look off into the trees. The scent of bark and pine needles reminds me of the deodorant Dad used to wear. I’d smell it when I hugged him in his red-and-black checkered lumberjack shirt.

“I’m sorry,” says Rachel. “We won’t talk about anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.”

We sit in silence for a while.

“My V-card hasn’t been stamped,” she says. “Not yet.”

I turn back to her. Her hazel eyes shine.

“I…my mom…David. The asshole my mom is dating. It makes no sense. My mom and dad were so totally in love, and David is the complete opposite of my dad. He’s this hard-ass ex-military jack-off who treats me like a soldier and thinks all of his problems can be solved by barking orders at me. It’s like Mom couldn’t have picked a shittier boyfriend if she tried.”

Rachel’s eyebrows reach for the ceiling.

“Sorry for the info dump,” I say.

“It’s okay, Chloe. You’re a person, not a problem. It sounds like the only problem is David.”

“Good luck convincing him of that. He does whatever he wants no matter what anybody tells him.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“You do?”

“My Dad rides me like a horse, expecting me to jump over fence after fence with no mistakes. It’s enough to make me forget that I’m a human being, sometimes.”

“Yeah.”

Rachel slides over on the floor right next to me. I bump her shoulder with mine. Our legs hang out the side of the boxcar.

“So,” she says, “if my math is correct, you told me one truth and two lies.”

“And if my math is correct, you told me zero things I couldn’t find in a public directory.”

“Meow,” she says. Her cat claw comes to rest on my shoulder. “At least I didn’t cheat. Does that count for anything?”

“Maybe. You are crazy good at this game, though. I’m impressed.”

“A lifetime of studying the human condition. I bet it’s hard to impress Chloe Price. I’m going to feel good about that one.”

She brushes her hair out of her face with one hand. A woven bracelet slides down her wrist.

“I like your style,” I say. “Did you make it yourself?”

Rachel holds up her arm in front of her: thick black and blue threads are woven in alternating patterns around a pair of black clasps.

“I don’t think so. I’ve had this ever since I can remember. I wear it to remind me that there’s so much more out there to experience. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve got no reason to stay in Arcadia Bay. Don’t be surprised, Chloe, if one day I’m just out of here.”

“Let me know if you need an accomplice. Arcadia Bay can suck a bag of dicks.”

“Wow. Tell me how you really feel. Hold that thought—we’re here.”

“Where’s here? All I see is the same old forest we’ve been staring at for the last half hour.”

“Does it matter? Jump and find out.”

“Did you say jump?”

She turns around, gives me a pair of finger guns and a cheeky grin, and bunny hops backwards onto the forest floor without even looking. She falls on her ass, but she’s still in one piece.

“Fuck it.”

I jump off a moving train into the middle of the woods with nothing to stop my knees from buckling and gravity from dragging my ass down to the rocky gravel and pine needles and leaf-covered nettle except Rachel’s arms across my shoulders and around my waist.


	4. Chapter 4

“Got a quarter?” Rachel asks.

We’re standing in front of a trio of viewfinders on a fenced-off ledge sticking out of the bluffs overlooking the state park’s rolling green fields on the outskirts of town. It’s a nice place to be when you want to live life vicariously through the people you’re spying on without their knowledge or consent.

“You’re asking _me_ for a quarter?” I say.

She looks at me with a doe’s eyes. My hand automatically reaches into my pocket and pulls out a gum wrapper, some lint, and a paper clip.

“Really, Chloe?” Her smile turns into a frown. “You smoke every day and you don’t even have any spare change?”

“Uh, wrong pocket.”

I fish out a fistful of silver from my other pocket. Rachel takes the biggest coin from my palm and pops it into the telescope’s money slot.

“This is actually a pretty nice view,” I say when her smile returns.

“Glad you approve. And as your reward for making it up here, I have another game for us to play. This is one I learned in theater class. It’s about improvisation—you find someone to spy on, and then you act out what they’re saying.”

“That’s it? I do that in my head during every class. Just yesterday my Life Skills teacher delivered a monologue on galactic domination while wielding a slide rule light saber.”

Rachel looks at me sideways.

“Sounds like you’re a natural. So let’s put your skills to good use.” Her stomach makes a noise. “Oh, and if we see anything tasty, we’re going down there to convince the owners to share.”

“So now we’re role playing raccoons, too.”

“Only if raccoons have a taste for Merlot.”

“Merlot? Can’t we just go to a liquor store?”

“I forgot my fake ID at home. Besides, it tastes better when it’s not yours—and when you’re doing things you’re not supposed to.”

She winks at me.

We put our heads together and look through the viewfinder. She smells like jasmine and lavender.

A guy in an apron grills hamburgers. A young boy eats from a basket of fries at a nearby picnic table.

“Hey, what do you say we barbecue some squirrels when we’re done here?”

“Dad, you just have the best ideas. Is it okay if I unload right here? I don’t want to have to walk all the way to those smelly outhouses.”

“Didn’t you see the ‘no dumping’ sign?”

“Well, shit.”

“Watch your mouth, son.”

We share a laugh.

A couple sits on a bench, facing each other, holding hands.

“Why do we always hold hands like this?” I ask. “Didn’t you tell me you were ambidextrous?”

“No,” says Rachel, “I said ‘ambisexual’.”

“Oh. So you can have sex with both of your hands?”

“Exactly. Want to see?”

I smack Rachel’s shoulder. She shoves me in the arm.

A brown-haired man in a dark suit holds hands with a skinny blonde wearing a short-sleeved, white summer dress. It looks like she has a tattoo on one of her arms.

“Jackpot!” I say. Rachel leans her shoulder into me. “Commence make-out session in three, two, one…nailed it. Damn, they are really going at it. ‘Wait, you’re a prostitute? But I’m a prostitute. Now which one of us gets paid?’”

Rachel’s shoulder is absent and so is Rachel. She’s standing behind me at a distance with her back to me, arms crossed.

“You’re not mad that I called it before you did, are you?” I say.

“What are we doing?” Rachel says.

“Making fun of people? I’m guessing you’re done?”

“Are _we_ supposed to make out now so someone else with a pair of binoculars can talk shit about us?”

“Um…only if we’re not supposed to be doing it?”

“Last time I checked, you’re supposed to be Chloe Price. Yet we’ve been ditching for hours now and we haven’t even gotten wasted. You don’t ask a girl out and then not buy her a drink.”

“The Honors student wants to show me how to party? Be my guest.”

“How gracious of you.”

Rachel stalks off down the path. We pass oak trees, a pair of snacking blue jays, a family of roving squirrels, and a statue of some dead white dude poking himself in the eyeball with a sextant before arriving at a picnic shelter where a young couple is having a nice, relaxing lunch-time argument on the same side of a picnic table. And they haven’t even opened the wine bottle yet.

“Let’s steal it,” says Rachel. She still has her back to me.

“I thought we were going to ask them to share.”

“I changed my mind.” Rachel turns her head in my direction without looking at me. “Are you in or not?”

“I don’t know if I want to start some shit with that woman. She already looks like she’s wound up enough as it is. Like someone else I know.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. What is going on with you?”

“Nothing is ‘going on’ with me. I just want to take the edge off.”

“Why did you put the edge _on_ in the first place?”

Miss Ice Queen’s reply is a frosty glare.

“All right,” I say. “Lead the way.”

“Try to keep up.”

Rachel walks straight up to the couple at the picnic table, stares at them, and collapses to the ground. It’s like she’s not even trying.

“Oh, my God!” says the woman. Her boyfriend’s five o’clock shadow gets a face full of jet black ponytail as she jumps right in front of him and kneels down next to Rachel. “Is she all right?”

The man stands up, runs one hand through his wavy hair, and bends down next to her.

“I used to be a lifeguard,” he says. “I should remember how to do CPR. That would help her, right?”

“So do it!” she shouts.

“Don’t yell at me!” he shouts back.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” I say, “it’s that yelling usually leads to using your mouths for other things and then nine months later you have more than you bargained for.”

“What are you talking about?” says the woman. “She needs our help! Can you help us? Because I don’t think _he_ can.”

“I’m more than capable of helping if you’d just let me show you,” he says.

“I’ll go to the ranger station on the other side of the park and get help,” I say. The couple—if that’s what you’d call two people who do nothing but yell at each other—look at me like I’ve just offered to save their relationship.

“Great idea,” says the woman. “At least _she_ knows how to take care of her girlfriend.”

“What?” I say.

“What?” says the man.

“What?” says Rachel.

“I think she’s recovering,” says the woman.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “Meanwhile, I think you should get started on mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. There’s no time to lose.”

“Noooooooo,” croaks Rachel.

“Right,” says the man.

“I meant your wife,” I say. “She probably has a larger breath capacity.”

“She’s not my wife,” he says.

“And I won’t be with _that_ attitude,” she snaps.

She pinches Rachel’s nose and leans down over her. The man sighs as he puts his hand against his forehead. I start off at a brisk, wine-snatching trot and don’t stop until I’m well past the viewfinders. Turns out the bottle is open after all, so I decide to take a couple of swigs: cheap, fruity, and not in my hand.

“I’m excessively sober right now,” says Rachel.

She tilts the bottle all the way back and chugs like she’s spent every day for the last year downing her own body weight in booze, then stalks off down the cliffside path that leads away from the overlook. We get as far as the railroad tracks that run past the city junkyard before she starts staggering. I’m doing my best to balance my relatively sober ass on top of one of the railroad ties, but come stumbling down when Rachel slaps the wine bottle into the palm of my hand. I point my nose at the sun and kill the rest of the quarter-full bottle. I hand it back to Rachel and hop back up onto the railroad tie.

“Still want to go find something to eat?” I say.

“I’m tired. I need to sit down.”

I jump down and follow her over to an old cinder block house flanked by crates, a giant wooden spindle with the words “ELECTRICAL WIRE” printed in bold red block letters, and a stack of chair frames minus the padded parts where people sit. Rachel slides herself up onto the spindle’s circular surface.

“Man, it would be cool to explore this place,” I say.

She drains the last few drops from the bottom of the bottle and gives the place a once-over with her eyes.

“It’s a pile of trash, Chloe. You go have fun.”

While she’s cradling the bottle in her arms like a sleeping baby, I walk up to an abandoned tailoring mannequin with a measuring ribbon still hanging from its neck. The wine sends fire through my limbs. I face the dummy and put my hands on its plastic shoulders.

“Look at this lush. I’ve heard that actresses are moody, ma’am, but wow. How much do you normally have to drink before you feel like you’re in character?”

“I’m not moody,” Rachel says. “I just need some space. Is that all right with you?”

“I was talking to our friend here.”

I turn to her with my arm around the mannequin’s shoulders.

“Tell your friend to fuck off.”

“Whoa. Dude. I thought we were having a great day together. Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?”

“I’m not acting like anything. I just want to be left alone right now.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m not the easiest person to be around. I don’t exactly have tons of experience with the whole friendship thing.”

“Not everything revolves around you.”

“I didn’t say it did. I’m just saying I understand.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“Okay. Okay, I guess I don’t understand. I guess I don’t understand why you would just turn on me for no reason.”

Rachel stands up with a scowl on her face.

“I’m sorry, turn on you? I guess I forgot. It’s always about how _you_ feel, isn’t it? ‘Sad Chloe’s fucking sad again.’ Maybe you should try giving a shit about other people for once.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Fuck!”

I step away just in time to avoid a flying wine bottle. It sails past the dummy’s torso and shatters against the side of the cinder block house.

“Well, shit,” I say. “I know you’re the school princess with the DA daddy and the perfect grades and all the little Victoria Chases kissing your ass, but seriously? Fuck you.”

“Great. I’m leaving. See you around, Chloe.”

She staggers her way toward the railroad tracks.

“You’re going to walk away, just like that?” I say.

“Watch me.”

She throws one hand up into the air. I imagine a train coming right at her, her falling down in front of it, me running up and scooping her up into my arms, her looking up into my eyes as the train rumbles past us.

“Rachel, wait!”

I swear I see her give me the finger before she lets her hand fall to her jeans. I run up to her and stand right in front of her. She doesn’t try to go around me like I thought she would. She doesn’t even say anything, just stares at me.

“You can’t leave,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because…because I don’t want to ruin this the way I ruin everything else in my life.”

“And what exactly is ‘this’?”

“I…I don’t know…I mean…like, butterflies. When we’re…”

“Butterflies? What are you talking about?” Her face softens. Her shoulders relax. “Oh.”

“It’s just…today was the best day I’ve had since…in a long time. And when I ruined it just now, the way I ruin everything, it made me realize that what’s going on between us is…”

My cheeks are wet. Rachel puts her hand on my face and strokes it with her thumb.

“I’m sorry, Chloe.”

“I…I…”

“I’m really, really sorry. But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. I know it isn’t fair.”

“Who said it has to be fair? It just is.”

“I know. Goodbye, Chloe.”

Her hand leaves my face.

It’s hard to watch someone you thought might be something special walk away from you without even looking back. It’s even harder when you can’t see through the ocean of grief dammed up behind your eyes. Once Rachel’s disappeared completely, I pick up a baseball bat and look around at all the things that are already broken, dumped here by people who were done using them.

I start with an old pocket mirror.

I end with my dad’s car.

Is it actually his? It doesn’t matter. I smash the hood until my arms don’t work any more, then crawl inside and let the wine sing me lullabies until my tired, dried up eyes stop showing me things I can never have.


	5. Chapter 5

“Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

Dad drives us down a back road, playing that old country song where they’re always burning the midnight oil again. He turns the radio off when I don’t answer right away. I’m fixated on this poster of _The Tempest_ glued to the back of the front seat. I can’t stand the sight of Rachel in her hooded raven’s beak costume. I stare at my damp Arcadia Bay sweatshirt instead.

“Because you’re not real,” I say. I run my fingers through the long, blond hair I wore when I was younger. “And neither am I.”

“We’re not?” Dad says. He sounds like David.

On the floor next to my legs sits a small tool box, the one that was replaced by a massive metal treasure chest when mom’s asshole boyfriend starting moving himself in.

_If you want to rip a family apart from the inside, it’s important to bring the proper tools._

I slam my fist against the metal. Doesn’t do me a damn bit of good.

_Fuck you, David._

“Kiddo,” Dad says, “look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?”

“You made a new friend today.”

We drive past the giant oak tree that grows in the heart of Culmination State Park. Rachel stands on the side of the road in her blue and black flannel shirt with her back to us. She walks toward the old oak’s massive, chair-shaped branches as we pass.

“That was some fight,” says Dad. “A lovers’ quarrel, you might say? She nearly took your head off.”

Hanging in the netting on the back of Dad’s seat is a pale, plastic Barbie doll.

_You know she’s fake, yet you can’t take your eyes off her. Who else do I know that fits that description?_

I rip the head off the doll and toss it to the ground. Now it’s no better than a tailoring dummy.

_Fuck off, Rachel._

We drive into a dark green forest populated with trees whose names I know by heart even though I’ve never cared: cedar, cherry, maple, fir, alder, yew…California hazel. Rachel stands on the shoulder of the road facing the tree line. She turns her head as we drive by.

“What do you care?” I say to her.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” says Dad. “I guess I am getting into your personal business.”

We drive past white houses with wooden post fences surrounding front yards. In one of them, a little girl with a headband and a ponytail chases a bunny rabbit through the grass. I sigh.

“Something on your mind, honey?” Dad says.

“I could have sworn she looked—”

Dad comes to an abrupt stop at a solitary stop sign on a single-lane road out in the middle of nowhere. Something falls onto my shoes. I pick it up—Dad’s old Polaroid camera. The casing’s miniature screws are loose. It’s almost falling apart.

_I’ve never understood your hard-on for cameras, Max. You took a million pictures of us, and not one of them showed that you were gonna leave when I needed you most._

I let the camera fall to the floor as Dad accelerates.

_Fuck photography._

“Sometimes people need you,” says Dad. “Even when they don’t admit it.”

“Rachel doesn’t need me. She left.”

“She let you go to see whether you’d come back. Look.”

Dad slows, then comes to a stop right in front of Rachel. She walks up to where I’m sitting in the back seat and places her hand against the window. The blue on her checkered flannel turns dark red, a red that slowly spreads all over the contours of her body. I reach out toward the window and yank my arm back in response to an intense heat. My hand throbs—the lines of my palm are seared, bloody, and burn like hell.

Dad sweeps his hands outward across the hazy, sunny sky filtering in through the windshield—night creeps in. Stars emerge. Two of the brightest descend from the sky and hurtle toward us. A truck’s horn sounds. They’re coming at us so fast there’s no way in hell we’ll be able to move in time.

“Dad!”

Outside, Rachel is wreathed in flames that seem to caress her skin. She tilts her head to one side, gazing into my eyes as if she’s willing my spirit to join hers in a fiery dance of passion. The headlights are almost on us. Sweat trickles down from my unwashed hair. My blackened hand sheds ashen flakes. Maybe this is the way it was meant to be. Maybe Rachel just wanted to say goodbye before she left forever. Dad looks at me, unblinking, in the rearview mirror, his face frozen in time.

_Love until it hurts._

I reach my hand out to Rachel again—holy shit, it burns. I force my charred fingers against the window where Rachel’s hand melts the glass. To my surprise, the heat warms my body and relaxes me. My hand crumbles into dust, leaving a blunt stump. Rachel smiles.

_That’s my girl._

Rachel steps in front of the big rig with her back to the car. She spreads her arms wide. Brakes as loud as jet engines burst my ear drums. The car’s front end collapses like an accordion. Rachel’s back spider-webs the windshield. Dad faces forward, smiling, as still as a mannequin. Fragments of glass shower his face, bouncing harmlessly off its plastic ridges. I’m untouched, mute, stunned. A phone buzzes on the seat next to me, the old blue one Max and I decorated with markers and stickers. With my remaining, shaking hand, I manage to fumble open the flip-top.

[9/28/2008 10:11am] Max Caulfield: I’m sorry I couldn’t catch that body, Chloe. Hope you don’t hate me forever.  
[9/28/2008 8:13pm] Ernest Hemingway: The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some people are dead.


	6. Chapter 6

I wake up to my own dumb ass trying to light a cigarette, except the nicotine has been replaced by my arm hair and the paper is made of my fucking arm. I slap the shit out of my skin until it stops screaming, then toss the baseball bat through a hole in the car frame where a door used to be. From the looks of things, I’ve been gone all day and the sun has gone to bed, so I’m pretty much completely fucked. I figure I still have a couple of hours before Mom freaks out. I’m going to sit down somewhere and stare up at the stars in the night sky until she calls to let me know I’ve been kicked out of school for skipping twenty-five too many times and if I’m not home right this instant, she’s going to call the cops. Or even worse, send David out looking for me.

[5/7/2010 3:11PM] Mom: Principal Wells called today and told me you were truant again.  
[5/7/2010 3:12PM] Mom: We have a meeting with him tomorrow morning.  
[5/7/2010 3:12PM] Mom: Curfew is 10:15pm. You WILL be at home.  
[5/7/2010 7:42PM] Rachel: Meet me at the oak tree?  


Drama queen sends me a text like I have nothing better to do than come find her drunk ass. It takes me forty-five minutes to make my way back to the Overlook alongside the railroad tracks in the dark. I spend half my battery tracing a path using the glow of my phone’s screen. Eventually, I find the lamp-lined gravel concourse that leads to the giant, wooden, upturned palm in the middle of the park. Rachel stands in front of a barrel drum with her back to me. I wonder whether fights with her are anything like the ones I have with Mom. I know how to handle those, at least.

“You came,” she says. “I’m glad.”

“Are you sure about that? I got a different kind of message this afternoon.”

“I’d blame it on the wine, but I know better. Chloe…I want to talk to you about something, but I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

She turns around.

“It’s silly, but I’ve carried this photo around with me for five years.” She hands me the picture she’s been holding in both hands—the one I saw when I was searching her backpack for her belt. “It was taken at Mount Hood. My dad took me hiking there when I was ten. It started raining, and I fell and broke my arm in two places three miles from the car. I remember screaming like I was gonna die. But my dad…he carried me down the mountain. I still remember the smell of his coat, how calm he was, and the sound of his voice, and…he was just so strong, you know? I felt safe.”

“You trusted him.”

“Completely. You remember that guy we saw under this tree with that woman?”

“The ones who were making out?”

“Yeah,” Rachel rasps. “That was my dad. And that was definitely not my mom.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“The worst part is, I’m not surprised. I’ve felt like my dad’s been lying about something for a while. I just…I didn’t know what it was. So when I saw he got a text from an unknown number, asking him to meet, I thought I could catch him.”

I take a step toward her, but she puts her hand up.

“Chloe, I love my dad. I love him, and I never want to see his fucking face again.”

Dad’s perfect hair, his gentle smile…his coffin as it disappeared into a hole in the fucking earth.

“When my dad died,” I say, “I was so mad at him. I felt betrayed. Remembering him felt like thorns. Half the time I thought of him, I wanted to scream. And the other half…”

“You forgot that anything was different,” says Rachel. “Do you keep any pictures of him?”

“Taped next to my dresser so I can see it every day when I wake up. That’s his real face. I have to remind myself every day, otherwise I keep seeing the way he looked when Mom and I…”

Rachel nods.

“I owe you an apology,” she says.

“Don’t worry about it. We were both kinda the queen of shitty.”

“Whatever’s going on between us, it’s new, and intense, and you had the courage to tell me how you feel. I feel it, too. And I treated you like shit.”

“I don’t know if I’d call that courage. More like blind desperation. And a pretty good buzz from that wine.”

“I just want you to know that…I’m lucky to have you with me today. You’re a badass, Chloe Price.”

“What?”

“The way you took on those assholes at the concert—you dropped that one guy with a knee to the balls.”

“I would have been dead if you hadn’t shown up.”

“And I would have been alone today if you hadn’t come along, no questions asked.”

“Well, I don’t really need a good reason to ditch school. Or any reason.”

I hand the photo back to her. She stares at it.

“This isn’t my father’s face. It’s a lie.” She looks up at me. “What do you do when you live in a house that isn’t a home any more?”

My hands are jittery, so I light up a cigarette. I smoke through half of it in ten seconds. I’m flooded with warmth. An image of Dad’s plastic, smiling face lingers on the backs of my eyelids. I stub out my cigarette on the back of my left hand, grunting my way through the pain.

“Chloe?”

I thumb my lighter’s sparkwheel. I look into Rachel’s eyes, then at the photograph in her hands.

“Burn it down,” I say.

The photo smokes as it melts. Rachel tosses it into the garbage drum. Her arms hang limply at her sides as she watches the flames spread inside the barrel.

“What I wouldn’t give to leave this place and never look back,” I say.

Rachel turns to me.

“What’s stopping us?”

“Us? Are you serious?”

“There’s nothing keeping me here. Not any more.”

“So if I came to you tomorrow and told you to pack your bags…”

“Let’s do it, Chloe. Let’s leave this place forever.”

Rachel takes a step back from the garbage can.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go.”

And then, for no goddamn reason, Rachel runs up and kicks the trash can over, sending flames spilling out onto the grass and around the base of the giant oak tree that’s been here for four hundred million years.

“Fuck him!”

When she yells, the wind picks up and carries the flames across the grass. Pretty soon, they’ll burn up everything in sight. We won’t be able to blame grill dad for this one. Rachel bends over at the waist, sobbing into her hands. I grab her by the wrist.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	7. Chapter 7

Principal Wells’s whiskey-dick baritone voice sounds uncharacteristically sober and predictably dickless today. Fortunately for everyone present—Mom, Rachel, and Rachel’s obscenely wealthy Stepford parents—he keeps the curtains drawn so we aren’t blinded by the glare from his polished, brown billiard ball head. I have a highly scientific theory that the grey, three-piece suit he wears three days a week is supposed to have a calming effect on the “high-risk students” who get sent in here after Blackwell winds them up. I guess that makes me the shittiest scientist in the world.

“Miss Price,” he says. “The last time we met, an agreement was brokered. We agreed that you would rededicate yourself to becoming an exemplary Blackwell citizen. However, in light of recent events as well as your prodigious disciplinary record…” He drops a thick file folder onto his desk. “…we needn’t discuss any of what went on yesterday. You severed your relationship with Blackwell the minute you left school grounds without permission.”

“Relationship? I never agreed to this marriage.”

Mom sighs.

“Your rebellion at a non-mandatory institution leaves me dumbfounded.”

“Yeah. I find a lot of dumb here, too.”

Wells clears his throat. Mom digs her nails into my neck.

“Nevertheless, it falls upon me to—”

“I made her do it,” says Rachel.

Her parents sound like one of those balloon inflating machines, except this one is sucking all the air out of the room.

“Miss Amber?” says Wells.

“Yesterday was all me,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “My idea. I was having a bad day. I needed to blow off some steam and I took it too far.”

She looks over at me. I roll my eyes.

“Chloe tried to talk me out of it. ‘I’ve been down that road,’ she told me. ‘You’re better than this.’ But I wouldn’t listen. See, Chloe was afraid I’d get in trouble or get hurt, so she came with me, but only to keep me safe. I’m just sorry that you got caught up in it. That you allowed me to drag you down to my level. Can you forgive me?”

“For what?” I say. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Your willingness to stand by me even now is truly inspiring.”

“Chloe, is this true?” says Mom.

She puts her hands on my shoulders. I stroke an invisible dick to climax.

“Yes, it’s true,” I say. “She really is an amazing actress. Even I almost believed her. But it’s complete and total bullshit.”

“Miss Price,” says Wells, “your outburst only serves to strengthen the case against you. Miss Amber, I am as surprised by you as I am disappointed in you. You were clearly trying to cover for your classmate. I appreciate the motive, but I appreciate honesty more.”

“I bet you appreciate a nice bottle of Jack even more,” my mouth says.

Mom vice grips the back of my neck with one hand.

“Apologize this instant.”

“Sure, Mom. I’m sorry I don’t give a fuck about any of this.”

“I’ve heard enough, Miss Price. I came into today’s meeting planning to suspend you with the chance for reinstatement in the fall. In light of your actions here today, I have no choice but to expel you.”

Mom releases my neck. I cross my arms and sit back in my chair. Rachel sits up in hers.

“Fuck you, Chloe.”

“Rachel?” says her dad.

“Miss Amber,” says Wells. “What is the meaning of this outburst?”

“How about you don’t take credit for my shit?” she says.

“She just wants attention,” I say. “Can’t take her goodie-goodie label any more, so she made up a story.” I jut my chin out at her. “Nobody believes you, Princess.”

“Yes, we know, Chloe,” says Rachel. “You’re an outlaw without peer, which means there’s no way that someone like me could ever pull you into the Drama Lab, convince you to jump on a train, smoke pot with you at the Overlook, steal a bottle of wine, and drink it with you.”

“Rachel,” says her mom, “that can’t be true.”

“Wells,” I say, “you can’t seriously believe that Little Miss Sunshine here is a criminal mastermind.”

“We have witnesses,” says Rachel. “Ask Mr. Keaton. Ask Dana, Hayden, Steph, Mikey, Samantha—any one of the students on campus that day who saw me leaving with Chloe.” She nods her head at her parents. “Ask my dad. He was at the Overlook.”

Rachel’s dad looks like he wants to shit his pants but can’t because his thick-ass wallet is keeping his butt cheeks firmly pressed together.

“James?” says Wells.

“That much is true,” says James. “I was at the Overlook yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t aware of my daughter’s presence, however.”

“Miss Price. Your characteristic attitude appears to be masking something. What is it?”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t jump to conclusions about my daughter,” says Mom.

“Ms. Price, I have a file folder full of substantiated conclusions. I’m giving your daughter the opportunity to correct my reasonable assumptions. Miss Price, shall I call in the witnesses Miss Amber mentioned or would you like to spare me the trouble?”

“Call them,” I say.

“Very well. Mr. Keaton typically spends his weekends at home; I’m sure he would be more than amenable to verifying Miss Amber’s claims that you were present with her in the Drama Lab. Should this be the case, it would fall to her understudy to assume the leading role in the upcoming performance of The Tempest.” Wells puts his fingertips together and sits back in his chair. “I’m sure Miss Chase will perform admirably.”

The way Rachel’s looking at me reminds me of a doe that’s wandered into the road right in front of an oncoming semi. On purpose.

“Fine. Yeah. It was Rachel. She wasn’t covering for me. We’re not friends—we don’t braid each other’s hair or whatever stupid shit girls do together.”

“Very well.” Wells folds his hands. “Miss Amber, this being your first infraction in no way reduces its severity. Still, we will not be suspending you at this time. But you have squandered our trust. You will no longer be my administrative assistant first period. And you will no longer be involved in Blackwell’s performance of The Tempest.”

Rachel slumps back in her chair.

“You were going to kick her out no matter what?” I ask.

“Ray,” says James. “She loves that show. Since this is her first infraction, don’t you think—”

“I don’t tell you how to run the District Attorney’s office. Please don’t tell me how to run my school. Miss Amber, you must understand that regardless of your status here at Blackwell, adverse actions have adverse consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

She leans so far forward she looks like she’s going to fall out of her chair.

“As for you, Miss Price, since it appears that you simply went along with Miss Amber’s plan rather than initiating said plan, I am rescinding your expulsion. You will, however, be suspended for the rest of the year with the chance for reinstatement in the fall. Between now and then, I would advise you to reflect on the way in which you have conducted yourself in this office. Your manners today—or rather, lack thereof—are emblematic of a more serious overarching pattern of behaviors that may preclude your readmission into this institution. Are we clear on that?”

“What’s clear is that you can fuck off,” Rachel mutters.

“Excuse me?” says Wells.

Rachel’s mom puts her hands on Rachel’s shoulders.

“She was talking to me,” I say.

“Undoubtedly. Miss Amber, you may want to reconsider the company you keep.”

“You’ve given enough advice for one day, Mr. Wells,” says Mom. “Chloe has more productive things to do with her time.”

“As do we all,” says Wells. “You are dismissed.”

I dismiss myself to my locker where I recycle my textbooks into the trash can under Skip’s watchful eye. Dude’s so skinny he’d be the perfect spy if he hadn’t fucked up his career path by taking a security job at Blackwell. He makes up for it by being super cool—so cool, in fact, that he doesn’t check up on me once while I spend twenty minutes bidding farewell to the walls and stalls of the girls’ bathroom with my permanent marker.

“Later, Skip.”

“I hope not, Chloe.”

I light up one last cigarette to commemorate my time at Blackwell Academy—hard time, the kind of time you don’t ever want to have to do again.

“I don’t wanna have to bust you,” Skip says.

“You don’t have to. Just pretend you don’t see me, just like I’m going to pretend I don’t see my mom and her asshat boyfriend out in the parking lot.”

I peer at some brown-haired dude in a jacket leaning against his car and playing a game on his phone—is that Eliot? I’m so wrapped up in playing I Spy that I almost don’t notice my cigarette disappearing from my mouth and then from existence underneath the heel of Skip’s boot.

“Whoa. Skip, I had no idea.”

“You’re a lot more visible when you’re lit up. If you’re trying to avoid people, you might want to think about heading down the frontage road. You know…off the property.”

“Nice thinking, Skip.”

As soon as the parking lot’s out of sight behind the football field, I jog down side streets and into the sprawling forests of the Arcadian countryside. I meander in the general direction of the junkyard, my new home for the rest of the day, the week, however long it takes for David to piss Mom off and get his ass discharged.

[5/8/2010 10:23AM] Rachel: I need a date for the play tonight.  
[5/8/2010 10:24AM] Chloe: didn’t I get you kicked out?  
[5/8/2010 10:25AM] Rachel: All part of the plan. Meet me an hour before showtime.  
[5/8/2010 10:25AM] Rachel: And bring those acting skills of yours.  
[5/8/2010 10:26AM] Chloe: k  
[5/8/2010 10:26AM] Chloe: saw an old truck in the junkyard, maybe I can get it running  
[5/8/2010 10:27AM] Rachel: I know you can. You can do anything.


	8. Chapter 8

[5/8/10 11:30AM] Mom: David does not appreciate the way you dodged him in the parking lot.  
[5/8/10 11:31AM] Chloe: i don’t appreciate the way he existed in the parking lot  
[5/8/10 11:33AM] Mom: There will be consequences when you get home.  
[5/8/10 11:34AM] Chloe: then maybe there will be no consequences at all

Technically, when _The Tempest’s_ pre-show starts up in the evening, I’m not even supposed to be on campus, but technically, I don’t give a shit. And neither did Rachel when her epic anger management issues sent volcano-sized clouds of smoke billowing into the sky. I guess when you look at the hazy setting sun backdrop up on stage, then look up at the actual sky and see the biggest forest fire in state history blocking out the sunset, it must be the kind of self-referential meta-awareness that sends artistic types like Mr. Keaton into a state of comatose bliss. He’s done a pretty good job of taking over Steph Gingrich’s role as decorator-in-chief: balloon-shaped, pastel-colored lanterns adorn thick strings of bright, white light bulbs strung up between clumps of transplanted aspen trees, while cozy little amber-hued standing lanterns line the stage and sidewalk. I half expect fireflies and butterflies to suddenly appear and start shitting glitter all over the place, with the exception of Dana’s face which has already received the sparkle treatment. She’s wearing a crown of flowers and a see-through white shirt that bring to mind the kinds of fairy tales and hormones that make people think with their hips instead of their brains.

I think maybe I should go find Rachel now.

While I’m trying to figure out which of these giant white unmarked tents isn’t filled with half-naked men, I spy something out of the corner of my eye: tiny little Samantha Myers in a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows standing at the far end of one of the tents, peeking her head around the corner.

“Hey, Sam—”

“Shh!” she says with a finger on her lips.

Her bone-straight brown hair sweeps across her ears as she leans forward to listen to a conversation between some rail thin kid done up like a Cobra Kai skeleton on Halloween and a pudgy-faced, middle-aged blob in a suit.

“I can’t do it, Dad!” says the kid. “I’m sorry.”

“Nathan,” the blob says, “keep your voice down.”

“You don’t understand. They all hate me. They’re just gonna laugh at me.”

“And why do you suppose that is?”

“I don’t know…”

“Because you show weakness. Just like you’re doing right now.”

“But Dad…”

“When will you learn that this isn’t about you and your problems? This is about the Prescott name. _My_ name. You will not embarrass me. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Prescott Senior straightens up. “Now, break a leg.” He says it with _gusto_ , the way a hungry chef would talk to an egg he’s about to crack open and drop into a frying pan. “I’ll see you after the show.”

He turns around and walks toward me and Sam without stopping, like he’ll just bowl us over if we don’t move. I step to one side. Lord Prescott the Third, Esquire grunts as he shoulders past me, even though I’m not in his way. Nathan isn’t far behind him, grabbing his hair with both hands in what looks like an attempt to pull it all out.

“Nathan,” says Sam as he stomps past her. He marches straight into what must be the boys’ changing tent.

“FUCK!”

That’s the funniest shit I’ve ever heard. Poor little Sam is staring at me with a worried expression on her face.

“Man,” I say. “Nathan’s dad is some asshole, huh?”

“I know!” says Sam. “I wish he’d just go away and leave him alone.”

“You should be careful what you wish for when it comes to parents.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Chloe. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It was a joke,” I say.

“Your dark sense of humor reminds me a lot of Nathan’s. Actually, the two of you are really similar.”

“Bullshit. Are you seriously comparing me to that train wreck? I mean, I know I have my issues, but come on.”

“I’m serious. You’re both artistic and surprisingly sensitive. You’ve been through a lot, and a lot of people unfairly judge you for it. Nathan’s hurt and he needs help, but whenever I try to help him, it always seems to make things worse. If you were Nathan right now, what would you want me to do?”

The way she fidgets with her fingers reminds me of the way Max would play with her hands when she was worried about something. I put my hands over Sam’s. Her eyes go wide.

“Keep it simple,” I say. “Just be there for him. Don’t be pushy, but be persistent, even if you don’t see results.”

Sam smiles.

“Wow. Thanks, Chloe. That’s actually super helpful. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Because it’s me?”

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that—yes, because it’s you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I get that all the time. Go…keep your legs intact.”

“Okay. Wish me luck. Wait, you just did. Shoot. I’m sorry.”

She scurries off between the changing tent’s canvas folds. I wander over to one of the stage’s life-sized wooden props, take out my permanent marker, and write “V.C. + B.J.” underneath the inspirational messages from those who came before me. With any luck, Victoria will suck as Prospera, too.

“That was pretty good,” says Eliot.

I jump up in place and cap my marker. It goes into my pocket as I turn around to face him.

“Hey, Eliot. How’s life?”

“Not bad,” he says. “I never knew you took such an interest in helping your fellow students.”

“Yeah, neither did I.”

“Think you could help me out with this extra ticket?”

“Actually, I’ve done my good deed for the day. Week. Year. I have a date with Rachel, anyways.”

“Rachel? Why would you attend a play with a person who got kicked out of it?”

“Kicked out? Where did you hear that?”

“Well, Victoria’s name has been taped up over Rachel’s out on the cast of characters.”

[5/8/10 7:42PM] Rachel: Showtime. Tent to your right.

“That’s my cue,” I say, nodding at the changing tent to my left. “I’m sure you’ll hook up with someone who can help you with your ticket.” I give him a solo finger gun. “Break a leg.”

Eliot’s laughter hangs over me as I wander over to the tent Nathan walked into and pretend to dick around on my phone. As soon as Eliot’s out of sight, I sprint into the other tent just in time to witness Rachel kissing Victoria Chase’s ass with a full coat of lip gloss.

“Even though I wish I were the one performing tonight,” Rachel says to Victoria, “I am really happy for you.”

Victoria snaps her head in my direction.

“What are you doing here?” she says. “I thought you were allergic to humanity.”

“I enjoy hanging out in large tents with naked people,” I say.

Rachel hands me an empty tea cup and a silver spoon while Victoria kisses her own ass in the standing mirror.

“Could you put this with the other dirty dishes outside? Thanks.”

Five minutes and three awkward conversations later, I lay the dishes to rest in a plastic bucket nestled into a brick wall corner. Rachel comes up alongside me and gives me a coy smile.

“Sweet tarnations!” Mr. Keaton cries from the other side of the stage’s backdrop. “We’re ruined! The show is ruined!”

He strolls into the backstage area with his silvery lion’s mane in his fingers. Rachel and I join a spontaneous gathering of the entire cast and crew of _The Tempest_.

“My dear young artists,” says Mr. Keaton, “a misfortune most unkind has befallen us. Juliet is waylaid. That infernal inferno is the culprit, closing down the roads and robbing us of our Ariel. Would that she could but manifest herself on her master’s whim as a true spirit. Alas…devoid of an understudy, the situation is a dire one indeed. I’m afraid we may have to cancel. Truly we are a cursed lot. Even my prodigious imagination cannot conceive of a worse turn of fate.”

“Or a more verbose soliloquy,” Rachel murmurs.

“Mr. Keaton,” says Victoria as she comes stumbling out of the tent. “I have revelations to reveal!”

“Victoria, my dear, are you hale and healthy, or is that illness I espy?”

“Rachel Amber is on drugs! She loves drugs! Look at her face—it’s so blurry and pretty!”

Victoria face plants onto the grass.

“Touché, fates,” says Mr. Keaton. “Touché.”

“Mr. Keaton,” says Rachel, “perhaps I could fill in for Victoria?”

“My dear, your visage is as a vessel sent by the heavens to offer passage to my stranded soul. But I’m afraid without our Ariel all is lost.”

Rachel sidles up next to me and puts her face right next to mine. Her hair smells like…ginger shampoo?

“Mr. Keaton,” says Rachel, “Chloe could fill in for Juliet. At least until the roads clear.”

The hair on my neck stands straight up. Mr. Keaton walks through the throng of students. Rachel takes a step back while Mr. Keaton looks me over like a horse being sold at auction.

“The romantic…” he says.

“She’s the right fit for Juliet’s costume,” says Rachel.

“She is, indeed,” says Mr. Keaton. “Tell me, my dear, have you ever acted before?”

“Hell no,” I say.

“She’s being modest,” says Rachel. “We play improv games all the time and she’s fantastic at it.”

“My dear,” says Mr. Keaton, “what if I told you the entire fate of our production rests upon your slender shoulders?”

“I’d say you’re super fucked.”

Mr, Keaton folds his arms and cups his chin in one hand. Rachel puts her lips right up to my ear.

“There’s a moment of intimacy between Prospera and Ariel,” she whispers. I draw my head back. She puts her hand on my neck and pulls me back toward her. “After the last act of the play,” she breathes, “they kiss.”

She puts her lips on my cheek. I have goose bumps, the jitters, cooties, bedbugs, ants in my pants, lightning in my veins, and my heart is racing. Also, I think I might be on fire.

“I guess I can help out this one time,” my mouth says.

“Marvelous!” says Mr. Keaton. “Rachel, be a dear and help your friend with her costume while you change into yours. The show must go on!”

Rachel puts her arm around me as she walks me back to the changing tent. I point my head up at the sky and exhale an imaginary cloud of smoke.

“Jesus…I’ve never acted in my life. What does this costume look like, anyways?”

“Like a raven. Feathered shoulders, purple-blue makeup accented with—what’s wrong?”

Dad and I sit in a row of chairs on a brightly lit stage. He’s in front. I’m in back. A poster of me wearing a raven costume is taped to the back of his chair. Our car doesn’t work—go check the spark plugs, would you, sweetheart? I open an invisible hood while David’s eyes bore a hole into my back. He grumbles about my lack of automotive expertise. A horn sounds. A semi takes out both rows of chairs. Dad is gone. Victoria boos.

“Chloe?”

I’m on the ground with my legs pointed away from me. The weight of the world presses down against my shoulders.

“I can’t do this. There’s no fucking way I can do this.”

Rachel puts her arms around me. She coos into my ear.

“There’s something in the changing tent that should help you relax.”

“Will I be as relaxed as Victoria?”

Rachel mimes smoking a cigarette.

“Medicinal. Victoria’s purse. She won’t be needing them. Does that help?”

I get up and start walking toward the changing tent.


	9. Chapter 9

**FADE IN:**

**INT. GIRLS' CHANGING TENT - EVENING**

_CHLOE PRICE, playing ARIEL, totally smokes a fat doobie and drinks from a wine bottle as she looks herself over in the mirror. She wears a raven-themed costume, complete with beak hoodie, decorative feathers, and stylized makeup that looks like a geometry textbook threw up on her face. She studies directions written on sticky notes by STEPH GINGRICH, the stage manager who isn't here because some football jock's kid brother is in the hospital. Chloe takes one last dragon puff and stubs out the joint against the vanity shelf._

_Chloe spends ten minutes coming to the conclusion that no amount of direction is going to prepare her for making an ass out of herself on stage in front of two hundred people. She takes VICTORIA CHASE'S lipstick and draws a pair of Xs along with a red noose on the mirror. She lines up her face with her artwork, then sticks out her tongue the way she and MAXINE CAULFIELD - sorry, MAX - used to when they had to eat vegetables at dinner._

**CHLOE**

The best part about being dead is that you don't have to worry about dying.

**MR. KEATON**

(off)

Show time!

**EXT. OFFSTAGE - EVENING**

_Out on stage, RACHEL AMBER's tiny figure is shrouded by a set of ridiculously bright lights in front of that kick-ass orange sunset backdrop Chloe was admiring earlier. Rachel delivers her monologue with a staff in one hand, raising and pointing it dramatically as she recites incantations written by some asshole named Shakespeare who made people forget everything they knew so they could spend all day writing love poems to each other._

**RACHEL**

(off)

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, now my dear lady, hath mine enemies brought to this shore...

**CHLOE**

Mr. Keaton, I don't think I can do this.

**MR. KEATON**

Every great actress experiences self-doubt before going on to give a performance that garners rave reviews. Henry Fonda was still throwing up before every stage appearance well into his seventies.

**CHLOE**

(sarcastic as hell)

Wow. That is truly inspiring, Mr. K.

**MR. KEATON**

Think of this as the inner storm before the calm.

**CHLOE**

Shouldn't that be the other way around?

**RACHEL**

(off)

Come away servant, come. I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel, come.

**MR. KEATON**

You're on.

**EXT. THE TEMPEST STAGE, HOLY SHIT THESE LIGHTS ARE BRIGHT - EVENING**

_Chloe forces herself to walk out onto the stage. Rachel looks like she's in her element. The audience is nowhere to be seen. Chloe relaxes somewhat._

**CHLOE**

All hail, great mistress! I come to answer thy best pleasure.

**RACHEL**

Most fearless, generous spirit! Hast thou performed to point the tempest that I bade thee?

_DANA WARD plays MIRANDA, whose role in this scene is to take a nap on stage in front of an audience. The joint Chloe smoked in the dressing room is starting to chill her out, but Dana is taking it to the next level._

**CHLOE**

I boarded the king's ship. In every cabin, I flamed amazement. The fire and cracks of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune seemed to besiege and make his bold waves tremble.

**RACHEL**

(surprised that Chloe actually remembered her lines)

My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil would not infect his reason?

**CHLOE**

Not a soul. The king's son, Ferdinand, was the first man that leaped from his ship, and cried, "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!"

**RACHEL**

But are they, Ariel, safe?

_Chloe walks to an X made of red tape hidden behind a couple of rocks. This is where the shipwreck is supposed to be._

**CHLOE**

Not a hair perished, and as thou bad'st me, I have dispersed them 'bout the isle in troops.

**RACHEL**

Ariel, thy charge exactly is performed. But there's more work.

**CHLOE**

Is there more toil? Let me remember thee what thou hast promised.

**RACHEL**

How now? What is 't thou canst demand?

**CHLOE**

My liberty.

**RACHEL**

Thy liberty?

_Rachel frowns and strikes her staff against the floor._

**RACHEL**

(off script)

Nay! This most of all I will not grant.

_Goddamn it._

**RACHEL**

I never said how dearly I hold thee. My habit's been to keep my soul well-draped. My most loyal spirit, companion and friend, is acting in my service not replete with excitement, amusement, and delight?

**CHLOE**

(transfixed by Rachel's emerald eyes)

Of course, mistress. Most truly is it so.

**RACHEL**

Then why, I pray you, wish you to be free?

**CHLOE**

Excitement...excitement's a mere counterfeit of bliss. I would rather know that thou hold'st my plainest self in thy regard. Amusement ages quickly; to inflict myself upon you would grow old.

**RACHEL**

I have thee in my grasp. I will not bend. I will not see thee flying forth alone! The envy would be more than I could bear.

**CHLOE**

My most fervent wish has ever been a true and just companion. But I shall serve no master to that end.

**RACHEL**

(aside)

Thou trickster raven - how thy sharpened beak doth pierce me.

**RACHEL**

Spirit, take my hands, most faithful friend.

_Rachel drops her staff to the floor. She takes Chloe's hands and goes down on one knee._

**AUDIENCE**

(gasps)

**RACHEL**

For but a little longer, I beseech thee: continue in thy service to my schemes. And when they are complete, I swear to thee, we shall fly beyond this isle, the corners of the world our mere prologue. I'll seek to make thy happiness so great that e'en the name of liberty's forgot. What sayest thou to my most hopeful wish?

**SOME GIRL**

(off)

Say yes!

**WILLIAM**

(in Chloe's ear)

Are you sure you can handle this, sweetheart?

**CHLOE**

(after a pause)

Yes.

**RACHEL**

I am most pleased. Your duty done for now.

**EXT. OFFSTAGE - EVENING**

_JULIET WATSON has finally arrived wearing the exact same costume as Chloe. She gives Chloe a huge hug._

**JULIET**

You crushed it! So good!

**MR. KEATON**

You're a born thespian, my dear. I'll be chasing you down next year. And the ending! Absolutely transformative.

_Mr. Keaton turns to face the stage. Chloe is about to thank him, but the wine sends her head spinning, sets her ass on fire, and makes her stomach explode through her throat all over the ground. She lies down in the fetal position._

**MR. KEATON**

Henry Fonda would be proud.


	10. Chapter 10

If the streets had walls, Rachel would be bouncing off them. She runs up the darkened road ahead of me and spins herself around a lamppost, holding on with one skinny arm.

“ _Sweet tarnations!_ ” she calls out. “Keaton’s face when you went up on stage…”

“Ugh,” I say, covering my smile with one hand. “I was shitting myself.”

“ _He_ was shitting himself.”

Rachel launches herself from the base of the street light and runs back to my side.

“’My dear, what if I told you the entire fate of our production rests on your slender shoulders?’ I love this time of night. Don’t you feel like anything’s possible?”

She links her arm with mine.

“Yeah,” I say. “Is it always like this?”

“Oh, totally! It’s such a high. No more nerves, just the adrenaline.” She kicks at the pavement with her shoe. “So, first-timer, are you proud of yourself? You were literally perfect. I was blown away. Even your ad-libbing was surprisingly good.”

“For someone like me.”

“For someone who isn’t an experienced thespian. It’s a compliment, Chloe.”

“Thanks. I’m not really used to those. I feel…really good. If you told me this morning I’d be this happy tonight?”

Rachel smiles at me.

“You’ve gone through so much shit today,” she says.

I smile back at her.

“I take it you’re not mad at me?” I ask.

“For what?”

“For…you know.”

“For your amazing ad lib? That’s what acting is all about: living in the moment and sharing that moment with others. Those lines were really damn good. I didn’t know you were into Shakespeare.”

“Neither did I. It just came to me.”

“You have a real gift, an untapped inner energy just waiting to be unleashed. That’s why you need to get the hell out of here—you can do so much, Chloe. All you need is the right environment, the right encouragement, and the right…people.”

Her fingers magically slide between mine. An invisible wind whips through my body. I’m as light as air. Rachel pulls on my hand and sends us skipping down the street. We come to a sudden stop. I almost bowl her over. Rachel turns to me.

“Let’s leave,” she says. “For real.”

“For real?” I say.

“You said you wanted to skip town and never look back. Let’s do it!”

“I’ve been thinking about that all day. But that was…”

“Don’t tell me it was just a crazy thought. Did you see yourself on stage? That’s you—the real you. And all it took was a new adventure to bring it out of you.”

I laugh with nervous energy. Rachel releases my hand. I let her go. She skips down the street like a forest faerie trying to escape the paved roads and concrete buildings that the rest of us city-dwelling barbarians call home. I walk toward the place where she disappeared into the darkness.

“Boo!”

She jumps out of nearby bushes. I double over and try to catch my breath, but she grabs both my hands and starts twirling us around in maniacal circles. I’m about ready to throw up again. This is exactly why Dad used to tell me and Max not to play too hard after we had stuffed ourselves with grilled cheeseburgers and hot dogs and—Rachel’s forehead slams straight into my shoulder. She laughs like a little kid.

“You’re a great actress, Rachel.”

“Thanks.”

My hands fall to my sides. I swallow hard to keep the wine down. Rachel puts her hands on my arms.

“This isn’t a dream, Chloe. This is real. I know you want this. You could have run away by yourself any time you wanted to, but you didn’t. You’re still here. Now I’m here, too. I’m here for you.” Rachel holds out her hand. “Let’s go now. We already agreed on stage.”

“So that’s what that was.” I take her hand.

“What did you think it was?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders. “Could have been anything.”

“It _can_ be anything. Let’s make it happen.”

“Okay, but…”

“For fuck’s sake! I’ve never been more serious in my life!”

And then her lips are on me, her mouth opens into mine, the heat of her breath fills my chest with a thousand days of sunshine, walks on the beach, countryside train rides, summer vineyards, fragrant wine, gentle breezes rippling through wheat fields as far as the eye can see. I don’t even have time to come back down to planet Earth before she does it again.

“Holy shit,” I say.

“Right?”

“Of course you would say that.”

“What’s wrong with confidence? Look what it just got you. Hang around me and you’ll have more confidence than you know what to do with.”

Rachel laughs, then runs off to the street lamp and hides behind it. She cups her hand beside her mouth.

“Say yes!” she calls out.

I look down the street behind her, over my shoulder, at the lights lining the sidewalk leading to the front door of a neighborhood house.

“Dad?” I whisper.

Rachel strolls back to me, head down, her hands in her pockets, stomping the heels of her shoes against the pavement. She looks up at me.

“Listen, Chloe…we can sit around in this small town waiting for the whims of fate to one day decree that we’re worthy, or we can get out there and get up in fate’s face. You know what we’ll say?”

Silvery-grey snowflakes descend all around us, onto my shoulders, my shirt, my shoes, onto Rachel’s hair. I let a bunch collect in my hand, then blow the dusty specks back into the air.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

Rachel chokes on her words.

“Uh, not exactly,” she says. She looks up at the sky. “Oh. See? It’s a sign. We were meant to share our gifts with the world.”

“What are you now, Santa Claus?”

“Only if you’re Mrs. Claus.”

The flakes grow in size as they fall in greater numbers. I close my hand around a pile of them. They’re warm to the touch. I close my eyes and nod.

“So, where are we taking Kris Kringle’s sleigh?” I ask.

Rachel smiles. “You tell me. You’re the one fixing up our sled. What uniquely twisted destination does Rachel Amber plus Chloe Price equal?”

I look down the street.

“The open road.”

“You and me driving down the coast, filling up our truck with hilarious souvenirs, and every night we’ll find a different beach to walk along as we watch the sun go down. One day, you’ll be at a gas station fixing the brakes and some guy with no shirt on will come up to you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I say. I shove her shoulder playfully.

“And he’ll say, ‘That’s so hot that you know about cars.’ And I’ll say, ‘Back off. She’s with me.’”

“We’ll need proof,” I say. I thread my fingers between hers and hold up our arms together. “We should get matching tattoos.”

“Nice.”

“I was thinking a vine-wrapped rose the color of blood that snakes all the way from our elbows to our shoulders, capped with a skull that symbolizes a life where the shepherd of our days is always in our fucking faces.”

“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”

“I may or may not have a lot of free time.”

“That skull of yours isn’t just a symbol of fate, though. Neither are these ashes. Think about it: what comes after those things?”

“Decay?”

“Rebirth,” she says. “A gift from the spark that sets in motion a series of unforgettable, life-changing events.”

She puts her hands on my shoulders. I rest my fingers on her wrists.

“A butterfly flutters its wings for the last time in a place called Carmel-by-the-Sea, two new butterflies in a northern seaside town emerge from their cocoons to begin the rest of their lives.”

“You never left the stage, did you?”

“I was just waiting for you to join me. We leave tonight. Let’s go sneak some clothes from my house, then we’ll go set up camp in the junkyard while you work on that truck.”

“What if I can’t get it running?”

“Then we’ll hop a train, Jack Kerouac style, and sail wherever the wind blows us.”


	11. Chapter 11

I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of a mansion I thought we were just going to walk past on the way to Rachel’s place—nope, the centerpiece of her parents’ _estate_ is a rambling, multi-story house that looks like a kaleidoscope maker and a woodworker had wild, unprotected sex. When she reaches for my hand at the ornate double entrance doors and I’m still out on the front lawn, she calls out to me in a muted sing-song.

We stealth into the foyer, keeping our shoes on as we head for the stairs. Rachel’s dad is in the living room with his back to us, listening to smooth jazz and reading a big ol’ newspaper, while Rachel’s crimson-jacketed mother busies herself cooking up something in the kitchen. This place has the same kind of ambiance that _The Tempest_ did, straight down to the amber-colored lantern-style lights hanging from the lacquered wooden slats and beams that run along the ceiling and pretty much every other surface in the house.

Rachel slinks around a corner not far into the foyer and tries to lead me up the stairs by the hand. Problem is, an angled wall stands between us. I smack my face against wood paneling.

“Oh. You’re home,” says James. He looks me up and down as he gets up from his chair. “Rose, Rachel’s home. And she’s brought her friend.”

Rose wanders out of the kitchen wearing a flowery pink apron over her jacket and white summer blouse.

“Our star returns,” she says. “You’re just in time. Dinner’s almost ready.” Unlike her tight-ass husband, her face occasionally smiles. “Chloe, was it?”

“It was, once upon a time,” I say. “Now I’m just that girl who keeps popping up in the strangest places.”

“Rachel, honey,” says James, “you were resplendent tonight.”

James puts his hand on her shoulder. She takes a half-step backward with her head down.

“Thanks,” she mutters.

“Chloe, you must stay for dinner,” says Rose.

“I must?”

“Of course,” says James.

“We’re having chicken à la king,” says Rose. “I’m sure you both acted up quite the appetite.”

“Thanks, but I’m more of a burger à la king kind of girl.”

“She’s funny, this one.”

Rose’s laughter is porcelain, like the antique dolls my grandmother used to keep locked up in a cabinet in the living room.

“I’m aware,” says Rachel.

“Chloe,” says James, “I know we didn’t meet each other at our best this morning, but with you and Rachel becoming such fast friends, I insist you join us for dinner. Don’t you agree, Rachel?”

“Chloe,” says Rachel. She’s wearing the same smile as her mother. “Won’t you please join us for dinner?”

“Of course,” I say in my best James Amber voice.

“Great,” says Rachel. “I just need to wash up and I’ll be right down.”

“Don’t be long,” says Rose. “In the meantime, Chloe, why don’t you help me with dinner?”

“Because I don’t know how to cook?”

Rose and James slide back into position inside their wooden cuckoo clock display. Rachel elbows me.

“I’m just going to go pack,” she whispers. “You cool down here?”

“Hurry back. I don’t how long I can keep this up.”

“Try doing this your whole life. Oh, and try not to say anything…”

“…that I would normally say?”

She swats the back of my jeans.

Almost as soon as I’ve set my ass down on the surprisingly soft cushion of a high-legged chair at the kitchen’s marble counter top, Rachel’s chef-mom sets me off on a series of obnoxious errands that stop being boring when I get to set candles on fire.

“So, what did you think of the play?” I ask.

“Rachel was amazing, as usual, but I never did like _The Tempest_. What did you think of it?”

“To be honest, I didn’t really read it.”

“Yes, that was apparent in your performance.”

“Ouch. Sick burn, Mrs. Amber.”

“I’m sorry. Was that mean?”

“No, I deserve it.”

“Well, I’d say you deserve something more suited to your palate after chewing on all that scenery.”

Right on cue, Rachel appears at the bottom of the staircase and floats straight to a seat at the empty table. I sit down next to her. When the chicken à la king and vegetables à la queen arrive, she pushes them around on her plate. Silverware clinks against china as the rest of us eat in awkward silence.

“So, Chloe,” says Rose, “are you and Rachel in any of the same classes?”

“I wish,” I say. “Rachel’s all honors. I’m still trying to get into remedial…what’s it called? Vocabulary.”

Rose and Rachel stifle laughs. James looks confused.

“What about that fire?” says Rose.

Skinny girl starts eating. The sight fascinates me.

“Dinner’s really good, Mom,” she says.

“It’s certainly troubling,” says James. “The latest reports from the commissioner’s office suggest arson.”

“Arson?” says Rose. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Any number of reasons,” says James. “With everything going on in the world today, even a town like Arcadia Bay isn’t immune to the ills of society.”

“I cannot imagine how difficult these last few years have been for you, Chloe,” says Rose. “Now that you and Rachel have become friends, I want you to know that our home is always open to you.”

“Uh, cool,” I say. “Thanks.”

James takes Rose’s hand and places it in his, like we’re all about to sing Kumbaya or some shit.

“Well said, dear,” he says. “It’s imperative, in such troubled times as these, that we remember what is most important to us: family. Family is not merely a gift—it is a responsibility. As such, those we love must be cared for, and never, ever, taken for granted.”

My fork hovers in mid-air. Rachel drops hers onto her plate, then slams her hands against the table.

“Oh, fucking blow me!”

“I think that’s my line,” I say with a forced smile.

“I can’t sit here and listen to this bullshit any more,” Rachel says.

“Rachel…” says James.

“Stop it, Dad,” she says. “You’re a hypocrite, okay? I know. You’re a lying, cheating, piece of shit motherfucker.”

I lean over to whisper in her ear—

“Chloe, stop. That isn’t going to work.”

I slump against the back of my chair.

“We saw you kissing that woman at the Overlook,” I say.

“James?” says Rose.

“Honey,” says James. “Whatever you saw—whatever you think you saw…I know it’s hard, but I need you to trust me.”

Rachel fumes.

“No offense, Mr. Amber,” I say, “but I think we trust our eyes.”

“I see,” says James. “I tried to accommodate Rachel’s interest in you, whatever rationale that may have, but I fear I’ve made a mistake in doing so. I confess that I let my wife’s compassion get the better of me. I knew exactly what kind of person you were from the moment I set eyes on you.”

“What kind of person is that?” I ask.

Rachel stands up and slams her plate against the glass tabletop so hard that the surface collapses to the floor in fragments.

“Why can’t you just tell me the fucking truth? Stop lying. Stop being a politician for one fucking minute. Can’t you just…be my dad?”

The grandfather clock ticks. James looks at Rose. Rose nods.

“We’ll have a _civilized_ conversation about the truth of the matter in the living room,” James says.

“Do it here,” I say.

James’s eyes look through me. He puts his hands on the back of his chair, pulls it out from the table. In slow motion, he sits down and crosses one leg over the other. He folds his hands the way Wells did in his office.

“In every way that matters, Rose is my wife and your mother. The woman you saw at the Overlook was Sera, your birth mother.”

“Shit,” says Rachel.

“When I was in high school,” James continues, “there was one person everyone adored. Her teachers, her friends—Sera was everyone’s favorite. Every boy wanted to date her. I could scarcely believe it when she picked me. Early on, though, I realized I wasn’t enough for her. While the rest of us were pursuing college, careers, families, Sera wasn’t looking for any of that. She was looking for escape.”

“What kind of escape?” Rachel says.

“She became addicted to heroin. I ignored it for a while, seeing only what I wanted to see, until it was almost too late. When she became pregnant, I thought it would solve everything. And it did, for a while. Becoming your father was the greatest moment of my life. There was so much love, but…I was still blind. However much she loved you then, it wasn’t enough. For Sera, the need to escape was always there. For over a year, I tried to help her. I made myself believe that she was still a good person. That, no matter what happened, she would never do anything to hurt you. I was wrong. Eventually, I saw her for who she really was: a destructive person, someone who could never be satisfied by anyone or anything, even the love of her own daughter. I was desperate. I didn’t know what to do, so I made a decision: I was never going to let her harm you again.”

“How did she harm me?”

“Drug addiction is a disease. Addicts care about nothing else. Sometimes I came home to the sight of her passed out in her bed, on the kitchen floor, or…cradling the bathroom toilet while you slept in your crib or played on the floor with your toys. I could not allow that to continue.”

“So if she had done all that, like you say, then why were you kissing her?”

“It was the saddest kiss of my life. A kiss goodbye. I told her that I was happy for her, happy that she felt like she’d gotten her life together, finally. But she didn’t get to just decide one day to be a mother. Not after what she’d done. It pained me to hurt her the way she had hurt so many others, but I’d do it again, and again, and again to keep you safe.”

“That was the first time you had spoken to her since you left her?”

James shakes his head.

“I send her money every month. It’s our…arrangement. For fifteen years, she’s preferred that money to her daughter.”

“And now she wants to see me.”

“Yes,” says James. “But, Rachel, it cannot be. Sera brought criminals and drug dealers into our home. She put you in serious danger chasing her habit. And if she slides back into those habits again…”

“You don’t think she can change?” I say.

“In another fifteen years, perhaps. But bad habits that yield immediate, tangible rewards are much more seductive than good habits whose long-term benefits are not always readily apparent.”

“Are you a preacher or an attorney?” I ask.

“I’m someone who knows better, Chloe. Someone who knows what’s best for his daughter. In that regard, I do not share my wife’s open-ended invitation to you. I do, however, maintain optimism. When Rachel comes of age, I expect that both you and she will have moved on.”

I shake my head. Rachel opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. Like a ghost, she floats up the stairs that lead to her bedroom. Behind a closed door, the sounds of sickness. I wait five minutes before opening the bathroom door to the sight of Rachel, pale as death, with her elbows on the rim of the toilet bowl.

“We used to pick apricots with the 4-H Club in the summer,” she says. “We’d eat shaved ice on the beach when autumn came.” She dry-heaves stomach acid. I turn my head away. “When winter had passed, we’d go yachting and fishing off the coast with my aunts and uncles.” She sits up on the backs of her legs. “And my dad was the grand conductor, directing a symphony of fabrications the entire time without my knowledge.”

She flushes the toilet. I follow her into her bedroom where she collapses onto her bed. She’s a statue.

“Rachel?”

She doesn’t respond. It’s like she’s sleeping with her eyes open. I understand. Her geometrically regimented bedroom is covered with colorful images: words of wisdom, her zodiac sign, an enneagram chart, a picture of her with Nathan Prescott. No kidding? I poke around in her duffel bag and find a plastic dome with star shapes cut into it. For the hell of it, I plug it in and turn off the lights. The room turns purple. An image of the night sky floods the walls and ceiling. Rachel rolls onto her back as I lie down next to her.

“I’ve always loved stars,” she says. “They remind us there’s so much beauty out there that we almost never see. But all the stars in the sky—they’ve been dead for millions of years. They’re all lies.”

“That doesn’t make them any less beautiful,” I say.

She rolls onto her side, facing me, and drapes her arm over me.

“You’re one in a hundred infinities,” she says. “I mean it.”

We lie there in silence, gazing up at celestial bodies that don’t exist.

“I need to find Sera,” she says.

“Where would we even look? Sounds like your dad is set on making her hard to find.”

“He said she’s an addict. Maybe we can ask your friend from the mill.”

“Frank is not my friend. And I thought you said you didn’t trust your dad any more.”

“I don’t. But it’s worth a try. Can you do it? For me?”

I put my hand on hers, look up at the cosmic theater on display, and sit up, swinging my socks over the oval carpet on the bedside floor. I dial up Frank’s number—Price. The usual shit. What the fuck do I want, why should he help me, who the fuck is Sera, maybe he knows her but so fucking what? I put Frank on speaker phone, hoping he won’t notice—he fucking _hates_ it when I do that. For good measure, I turn on the bedroom lights.

“I’m asking for a friend,” I say.

“Yeah, well, I got a friend who’s pretty much fucked ever since some asshole set the woods on fire and burned down his mill, so you’re shit out of luck.”

“I know who burned down the mill,” Rachel whispers in my ear. I look at her like she just swooped down to earth in a flying saucer. She nods her head and points at the phone.

“My friend knows who burned down the mill. She wants information on Sera.”

A pause.

“Find it somewhere else. Damon’s a stand-up man and a good friend, but if you fuck with him, he goes wild. He’s done prison time, has a thing for knives, and won’t hesitate to use them on anyone who messes with his business. Doesn’t matter who they are or who they think they are, either—he’ll come after them.”

Rachel stares at me. I shake my head _no_ as hard as I can. _We’ll find another way_ , I mouth to her. She puts her face up against my neck and starts kissing it. I get goose bumps.

“Can’t we do it anonymously?” I ask.

“No deal. Like I said, if Damon knows someone has information he needs, he’ll come after them. More importantly, he’ll start riding my ass about it. And I can guarantee you I will sacrifice your ass to cover my own, Price. Speaking of which, it wasn’t you, was it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Rachel bares her teeth against my neck. I swear to god I do not need a fucking hickey.

“We’ll do it,” I say. “Set up a meeting.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, Price. Tomorrow at the junkyard. Twelve o’clock. Do not fuck with Damon.”

He hangs up. Rachel releases my neck.

“Maybe I was wrong,” she says. “Who cares if the stars are dead? As long as we can still see them, that means they’re real to us. Right?”

I shrug.

“What if the stars don’t give a shit about whether you believe in them or not? What if one of them decides to come hurtling down out of the sky at you because you went looking for trouble?”

Rachel clambers off her bed and walks over to a suitcase-sized emergency kit that sits next to her closet. She opens it up and plunges her hand into the space between the felt grey lining and the case’s hard, plastic interior.

“When I broke my arm at Mount Hood, I spent three days in the hospital. I came home to this—my Dad prepared it for me to make me feel better. He told me the next time there was an emergency, I’d have everything I needed.” She retrieves a long, rectangular, pointed object. It lands on the bed next to me with a dull thud. “I’m prepared for a wide variety of circumstances, Chloe.”

I pick it up—leather. I grab a handle and pull out a sharpened black hunting knife.

“This looks familiar,” I says. “Where did you get it?”

“A souvenir.”

I sheathe it and toss it back to Rachel.

“Dude. Are you sure about this? Frank said this Damon guy has a thing for knives.”

“As sure as anyone will ever be. Besides, when there’s something you want, you go straight for it. It’s the only truth to come out of all the lies my dad’s been spoon-feeding me ever since I was old enough to open my mouth.” She shoves the leather sheath into her waistband. “There’s always darkness in this world, Chloe, and it usually comes from people we thought we could trust.”


	12. Chapter 12

The truck’s engine sounds like a gassy fart when I gun it, but at least the damn thing’s running. Rachel appears at the gates to the junkyard wearing a pair of sunglasses and a poker face. She pinches her nose as she skirts piles of trash and debris and other things that are supposed to stay broken. She stops in place when I climb out of the truck’s cab in a pair of dust-covered jeans and greasy hands I haven’t washed since yesterday. She looks at the ground, exhales, and walks up to the truck’s open hood where she examines the gunked up mess of metal housing, wiring, and insulated tubes like she knows what she’s looking at.

“We’re up and running,” she says.

“Yeah. Took me a couple hours to figure everything out. I used my dad’s toolbox.”

“Even now, he’s still helping you.”

“Right? As part of his Total Annihilation Project, David started replacing all of dad’s shit with his, so I took this with me before it disappeared forever. Now that douche-stache has his ‘man-sized’ box of metal dicks all to himself.”

“You look cute when you do air quotes.”

She throws her olive green duffel bag into the back of the truck and is about to take a load off inside the cab when a familiar, off-white trailer barrels into the junkyard. It’s barely stopped moving when a skeletal, tattoo-covered wraith in a cheap, padded, sleeveless jacket steps out. Frank appears in his usual knit black burglar’s cap, wearing a t-shirt that resembles the raven shirt I’ve been wearing since yesterday—Rachel’s shirt. He hangs out by the front of his mobile meth lab while Rachel walks up to this Damon guy. He greets her by ripping the sunglasses off her face and crushing them beneath his military-style boot.

“I’m not impressed,” he says. “Some malnourished bitch thinks she’s going to charm me? You don’t even have a fucking body, but you don’t need to be worth a damn to burn down my mill—any asshole can do that.”

“What?” Rachel says. “I didn’t—”

“Bullshit. I know exactly who you are, _Rachel Amber_. Your father’s been a thorn in my side for a long-ass time.”

Damon snakes his arm around Rachel’s waist, grabbing at the back of her jeans. Rachel actually puts her hands on his chest and gazes into his fucking eyes. Frank uncrosses his arms and takes a step forward.

“I don’t see anything special in you,” Damon says, “but Frankie has a soft spot for kids. No fucking clue why.”

Damon pulls a leather knife sheath out of the waistband of Rachel’s jeans, the one she showed me yesterday in her room.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Frank. “I fucked up. You don’t need to work her over about it.”

“You let her sweet-talk you out of a knife.” Damon doesn’t even look at Frank. “You’re losing your touch.” Rachel opens her mouth to say something. Damon clamps his hand down on her throat. She makes a noise. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Back the fuck off!” I shout.

I march at him—he points the knife in my direction. Rachel gasps for breath.

“Frank told me about you. Normally his clients don’t show up on my radar, but apparently you’re interested in making a target out of yourself. Just like those two brain-dead goons of mine after they gave up a perfectly good knife. You’re know why they’re ‘underlings’, Frank?”

“You don’t need to do this,” Frank says.

“Because they’re too stupid and weak to do their jobs the way they’re supposed to. Maybe I should cut this bitch’s face to leave everyone here with a permanent reminder of the consequences of going soft on me.”

Rachel shakes violently. Tears run down her cheeks.

“Look where this knife ended up,” Damon says to her. He lowers the knife dramatically, then, as fast as a viper’s strike, levels it at Rachel’s throat. “Look where it’s going to end up.”

“I burned down your mill,” I shout.

Damon releases his grip on Rachel’s throat, turns to me, lets the knife hang down at his side.

“Finally,” he says. “Somebody around here with some fucking balls.” He walks toward me. “Your stick figure friend doesn’t look dumb enough—or ambitious enough—to do shit like that, anyways. But you, you got guts to be straight up with me about what you did. And I know you can fight—you worked over my boys at the mill. I respect that, which is why I’m gonna give you the chance to work off your debt.”

He stops right in front me, puts his nose up in my face. It takes everything I’ve got not to swing at his disgusting cheekbones.

“Twenty grand,” he says. “Frank will fill you in on the details.”

“You said you only paid ten,” says Frank.

Damon turns to him, points the knife in his direction.

“And here you were complaining about _this_ bitch’s mouth.”

Damon tosses the knife into the dirt hard enough that it actually sticks out. Frank’s RV leaves a trail of cloudy dust as it rolls away. Rachel takes shaky breaths, her hands on her knees as she whispers curses to herself. I walk up to her and put my arm over her shoulders. She throws it off and stands up straight. Her face is red. Her eyebrows are trying to kiss her nose. She stomps over to where the hunting knife pierces the junkyard’s dirty ground at an angle, pulls it out, and wipes the blade on the arm of her jean jacket. She puts the metal between her teeth and can’t rip the denim off her torso fast enough. She tosses her jacket to the ground, spreading it out with her foot. She stands over it.

“Rachel?”

She takes a breath, looks up at the sun, screams as loud as she can, and stabs herself in the goddamn motherfucking arm.

What?

Rachel falls to her knees and lies down on her side. Her arm bleeds out into the fabric of her jean jacket. She looks up at me like she didn’t just stab herself in the goddamn arm.

“I gave myself a tattoo,” she says.

“I’m not about to copy that shit,” I say. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

“Drive me to the hospital.”

“I mean—”

“Before I bleed to death, please.”

Rachel’s jacket becomes a tourniquet, which I have no idea how the fuck to make. My truck sees its first legitimate use, if you can call it that: I get to listen to the sounds of Rachel Amber whimpering as she bleeds out all over the cushions I just scrubbed with bleach. I’d turn on the radio, but I’m pretty sure this is the soundtrack life had in mind for this particular occasion.


	13. Chapter 13

“Chloe,” says James, “this is exactly why I didn’t want Rachel to meet with Sera. Even now, a decade and a half later, she’s still mixed up with the wrong sorts of people.”

James smells like an oak tree would if a flock of magic unicorns were to dive-bomb shit lavender-scented rainbows all over it. I don’t mind being so close to him in the reception area, I guess, even if Rachel says he’s supposed to be this colossal asshole. The pleasant scent of his cologne balances out the sterility of lego-brick walls, blue hospital gowns, and the sleeping angel down the hall, last door on the left. Me, I smell like the vomit that took ten minutes to leave my stomach. I wave away the wrapped breath mint James holds out to me.

“She told you she was clean,” I say. “Why do you think she would she do that?”

“We’re creatures of habit.” James is bent over in his seat, his hands folded together with his elbows perched on his knees. “When I wouldn’t give her what she wanted, she turned to what she knew—rather, who she knew.” He exhales through his nose. “I’m just glad you were there for her. Rachel means the world to me.”

“Me, too. I’ll do anything for her.”

“You’ve become fast friends in the past few days. Upon reflection, I’ve discarded my objections to your continued friendship, but you do need to reconsider the people you’re choosing to associate with.” I frown. James sits up. “I’m not here to judge you. What you do in your free time is your business. I just ask that you keep Rachel out of it.”

“Rachel’s been choosing to spend her free time with me.”

“Did Rachel choose to spend her free time with Mr. Bowers?”

“It was…my idea to meet Frank. Frank is cool, normally. It’s just his friend—”

“Damon Merrick. My office has been after him for quite some time. I would have waited another decade to pounce on him if it meant keeping Rachel safe, but this forced my hand. We got Frank to roll over on him pretty quickly. You won’t have to worry about Damon any more and neither will Rachel. Chloe…”

He turns to me and actually puts his hand on my shoulder.

“You don’t know who else Frank might know. He’ll be out of the picture for a while, but take my advice: steer clear of his social network. That includes Sera. Nothing good will come of it. I need you to keep Rachel safe for me, to protect her, like you did today.”

“I’ll try, but when she’s determined to do something…”

“Chloe.”

Rose stands in front of me. Her cheeks match her pink blouse.

“Rachel’s awake. She’s asking for you.”

“Think about what I said,” says James.

Rose wraps me up in a motherly embrace once we’re inside Rachel’s room, out of sight of the bright lights that reflect off washed and re-washed floor tiles where exhausted firefighters and fretful fathers-to-be rest their feet.

“Thank you, Chloe,” she says.

Rachel’s eyelids are heavy with sleep. Her upper left arm is wrapped in thick bandages. Thin, plastic needle-tubes taped to her hand snake their way up to an IV drip stand next to her bed. I slide into a plastic chair.

“I need you to do something for me,” she says.

I take her good hand.

“Anything.”

“I need to meet Sera.”

I fill the entire room with my outbreath.

“After that shit that went down at the junkyard?”

“I was close, Chloe. I was so close.”

“The only thing you were close to was a psycho.”

“My dad will take care of it.”

“Are you sure? That Damon dude doesn’t seem like he gives any fucks whatsoever, and that’s coming from an expert on the subject.”

“I’m sure. I need you to go to my dad’s office right inside the house. See what you can find. The code is 0722, my birthday. The house key is in my bag. Do this, and then we get out of here for real. You and me…and Sera.”

“You want to take off with Sera?”

“We can help her stay clean. She can help us get settled down somewhere. I’ll go to court if I have to. She’s my birth mother. They have to let me stay with her.”

“Your dad has an army of lawyers and police on standby. He kept her away for fifteen years. We don’t have that much time.”

“We don’t need fifteen years. We need someone who’s been through hell, just like we have. Someone who’s so sick of everyone’s shit that she’s ready to leave it all behind and start a new life. Chloe…doing the right thing isn’t always easy.”

“What if I say no?”

“Would you rather live a life of ‘what ifs’ or a life of ‘oh wells’?”

The bandage on her arm has been slowly turning red this entire time. I’d take her bad hand, too, if I could, hold it mine, transfer the strength in my body to hers. If only.

“Fuck it. Yeah. I’ll do it. I’ll put on my Sherlock Holmes hat and find out whatever I can.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.”

She reaches her hand up to touch my face but doesn’t have the strength for it, so I press her fingers against my cheek, my lips. Her eyes close, her breathing slows. I watch her for a while. I want to run my fingers through her perfect hair. Better to leave her just the way she is.

I haven’t even made it halfway down the hall when I’m stopped in my tracks by Eliot Hampden holding a little Hawt Dawg Man balloon and a Get Well card. The overpowering smell of his pine needle body spray almost has me coughing.

“Hey, Eliot. Wasn’t expecting to run into you here.”

“Oh, hey, Chloe. I didn’t think I’d see you here, either. We have to stop meeting like this.”

“We sure do. Who’s the card for?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Seems like half of Blackwell is here. Nathan Prescott almost ran over Sam Myers on his bike while he was trying to take a ‘moving picture’ with his camera, broke a couple of her ribs. He’s pretty messed up about it.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah. Crazy stuff’s been happening around Blackwell lately. Drew North broke his leg going down a flight of stairs—won’t be able to play football for at least four months. Good thing Steph is here look after his kid brother. I think he’d be lost without her. Can’t say the same for _The Tempest_ —how did you and Rachel manage to pull that off without Steph to run the show?”

“It was a spur of the moment thing that wrapped up before things got too awkward.”

“Huh. Well, were you gonna go say hi to Drew? We could go in together.”

He holds up a smiling, mustard-covered sausage in a wheat bun.

“I just got done visiting Rachel. I actually have some urgent business to take care of. The police want me to stop by. And for once, it’s not about me.”

His laugh is what you would call…uncanny?

“I guess I’ll check in on Rachel after I finish up with the tabletop crew,” he says.

“She’s actually sedated. The nurses kicked me out.”

“Oh.” He looks up and down the hall. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later. Good luck at the police station.”

“Thanks.”

I pass James in the lobby on my way out. Something pulls me back to him. I find myself actually putting my hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect Rachel,” I say.

He puts his hand on mine. Warm, firm, fatherly. A rush of memories comes flooding through my head and my heart. They try to escape through my eyes.

“I understand, Chloe,” says James. “I won’t fault you for doing whatever you feel is necessary.”

When I get to my truck in the back of the parking lot, I can barely see. I take the old beanie I found in the glove compartment and shove it down over my head so far that it’s almost covering my eyes. I try to keep my mind focused on the plan: I find out where Sera is, Rachel meets her, we leave it all behind. I blast the radio at full volume as I cruise down the highway to Rachel’s house.


	14. Chapter 14

James Amber has major wood for wood. This entire room could have been carved out of a single, massive tree trunk. Wooden cabinets with metal handles rest beneath wooden shelves bearing rows of velvet-colored law books with wood-themed trim. A golden statuette next to an expensive-looking flat screen TV catches my eye: it’s a trophy holding another trophy with the words “BEST DAD” etched into a gold-plated plaque on the base. That’s some pretty zen shit, there, giving yourself a trophy that gives itself a trophy. I shake it to see whether it’s actually solid—something rattles around in the base. Turns out there’s a key in there. A key that opens the locked bottom right drawer of James’s work desk. I set aside a wooden cane propped up against the metal handle and slide the drawer open.

A bottle of sherry with the price tag still on it: $10. Letters addressed to Rachel from Sera, each envelope split open at the top, bundled into rubber banded stacks. Checks addressed to Sera from James tucked inside each letter, the word “VOID” written on them in thick, black marker. A cell phone in a plastic bag, one of those newer models that doesn’t flip open. I thumb in Rachel’s birthday at the lock screen and almost wish I hadn’t—the background is set to a grainy picture of Sera with her wet hair hanging down over her face. She sits in a plain wooden chair with her arms pressed behind her. A scary-looking dude with tattoos all over his arms and face holds a knife to her throat. I check the messages.

[5/4/2010 02:28PM] Pitbull: Give me a name.  
[5/4/2010 02:29PM] Darcy: I held up my end of the deal.  
[5/4/2010 02:30PM] Pitbull: You need to remember who you’re dealing with. A name.  
[5/4/2010 02:31PM] Darcy: Gillespie.  
[5/4/2010 02:32PM] Pitbull: Son of a bitch. I always knew he was soft.  
[5/4/2010 02:33PM] Pitbull: Burn the evidence.  
[5/4/2010 02:37PM] Darcy: Done.  
[5/4/2010 02:38PM] Pitbull: Are you new at this shit? Show me the proof.  
[5/4/2010 02:40PM] Pitbull: Good. Don’t ever fuck with me again.  
[5/4/2010 02:41PM] Pitbull: Your package is at the mill.  
[5/4/2010 02:41PM] Pitbull: One year of sobriety down the drain.  
[5/4/2010 02:42PM] Darcy: That wasn’t the agreement.  
[5/4/2010 02:43PM] Pitbull: Fuck you is the new agreement. Enjoy.

“Chloe?”

The unlocked door opens up into the room.

“James, I can expl—Eliot? What…what are you doing here?”

“Did you break into Rachel’s house?”

“No, I had the key. She gave it to me. Did you follow me here?”

“Yes, Chloe, I did. You said you were going to the police station. You lied to me.”

“So fucking what? Why are you stalking me?”

Eliot slams the door shut behind him. I jump. His face is a thundercloud.

“Stalking? Stalking is defined as repeated, unwanted interactions. How long have my interactions been unwanted?”

“Since you followed me to my friend’s house and walked in like you own the place.”

“And you didn’t? This isn’t your office, is it? There’s a keypad security system, a locked file cabinet…” Eliot pulls on the handle of the top drawer, nearly tipping the entire thing over. “…law books everywhere. Have you been deputized?”

“What?”

Eliot walks right up to me. I take a half-step back.

“No, you haven’t Chloe. You haven’t. And that’s the point—you’ve been acting really strange ever since you started hanging out with Rachel. Her father doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

“What business of that is yours?”

“It’s his business, and I think it might be better for me to tell him exactly what’s going on. Chloe…” Eliot was cute, once upon a time, with that slicked back James Dean hair and those dreamy green eyes and those baby fat cheeks. “I’m worried about you.”

“Should I be worried about you?” My voice shakes. “You’ve started acting really strange, too, since I started hanging out with Rachel.”

He puts his hand against his forehead and shakes his head. He slams his fist down on the desk, leaving small fragments from the plastic face of his wristwatch on the surface. He doesn’t even notice.

“Don’t you remember those concerts we went to?” His face is contorted. He’s getting louder. “The after-parties? Those nights we spent together? Or did you just throw all those memories away like you did with Max?”

“What the fuck?”

“Chloe, I care about you. Rachel doesn’t. She’s using you. I need you to see that.”

“The only thing I see is you freaking out because I’m not head over heels for you.”

He clenches his fists at his sides. My chest burns white hot with fear. He relaxes his hands.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I’m here to help you.”

“I need to leave.”

I try to go around him, but he moves to block me. I try going the other way—he moves toward me, forcing me to shuffle away from him until my legs hit the desk and I fall backwards onto an oversized planning calendar. The small of my back hurts against the desk’s rough wooden edge.

“Eliot, you’re hurting me,” I say. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

His face is calm, like a lake on a breezy summer day. But his eyes—I see flecks of eerie darkness in his eyes.

“You were violent at the Firewalk concert,” he says. “Aren’t you used to this?”

“How do you—how do you even know about that?”

“You turned me down on a date for _The Tempest_. Sure, maybe plays aren’t your thing. But it’s just…” He leans over me with his hands on either side of my head. He smells like pine needles and hair pomade. “…your double standards are frustrating. Why is it okay when Rachel ambushes you at the front doors of Blackwell, but when I show up somewhere, it’s creepy?”

“I never said you were creepy. But that was before you pinned me down to a goddamn desk.”

“Rachel convinced you to skip school. She got you suspended. She drugged Victoria to get back into the play, then tricked you into performing with her so she could show you off to everybody. Do you really think that kiss was real? It wasn’t, Chloe. She’s manipulating your emotions.”

“What the actual fuck? Did you seriously follow us after the play?”

He grabs the top of my beanie, slides it off my head, looks over the lock of colored hair above my forehead. “You shouldn’t dye your hair. Strawberry blond is your natural color. Blue…blue is fake, just like Rachel. You’re not like her. Your life is in danger, Chloe. You’re not leaving until you understand that.”

I don’t want to be here any more.

_I walk into Rachel’s hospital room, sit down, stroke her hair, watch her as she sleeps. The door opens. She’s sleeping, nurse—it’s Eliot, a knife in his hand. He forces me into a corner, takes a pillow, buries Rachel’s face in it. She’s too weak to scream. I’m too angry to stay still. My body is a volcano._

I grab the back of Eliot’s neck and smash his head into mine so hard that I see stars. When my vision returns, Eliot is back by the filing cabinet with one hand against his forehead. I kick him in the balls as hard as I can. He falls to his knees. I race out the door and—no. He’ll just keep following me. I go back into the room and stand over him with my fist clenched. Once, twice, three times. The last one bounces his head off the filing cabinet. He sits down against it with his elbows over his head. I retreat into the living room.

Before I’m even thirty seconds into my 911 call, the front door unlocks and opens. James is flanked by a pair of police officers. The officers disappear into the office.

“What happened, Chloe?”

“How did you—”

“Silent alarm. Are you all right?”

“We’ll need an EMT for serious injuries,” calls a voice from the other room.

James sits down, opens his laptop, and brings up surveillance cameras on screen. It’s me and Eliot, everything we just did in black and white, playing out in real time. James folds the laptop shut. He sits back on the couch and temples his hands.

“I think I know what must have compelled you to enter my office without my permission.”

“Is Eliot going to jail?”

“What I just saw was you laying your hands on a young man who hadn’t touched you. That’s assault, Chloe.”

“What the fuck? How is that not self-defense? You saw what he did.”

“That’s not how the law sees it. What I can’t see is you sharing a cell with someone like Damon Merrick. Did you never stop to consider who might get hurt as a result of your careless actions?”

“I…”

“I see what needs to be done now. You saw nothing. You will tell Rachel what you saw: nothing. In exchange, I will permit Rachel to meet with Sera one time. I trust that you at least have enough to sense to comprehend the alternative.”

“You hired that dude with the tattoos. Damon.”

“I did not hire that man. He used me. The sad fact of the matter is that Sera would have used him, if she could have. Perhaps even Rachel.”

“And yet you’re suddenly willing to let them meet after fifteen years of keeping them apart from each other.”

“It will take a long time—years—before Sera truly changes. That is why I did not want her to contact Rachel. Rachel’s been through enough already. And now Sera’s suffered as well. It’s been my professional experience as a prosecutor that drug habits die very, very hard. Damon got her hooked again. I know what happens when Sera doesn’t get what she wants.”

“Like mother, like daughter.”

James nods.

“I know exactly how talented Rachel is. She knows all too well what she is doing, and I’m afraid that that may be her downfall. Protect her for me, and I’ll see to it that she meets Sera.”

“Maybe she’d be better off knowing the truth. She’d get that if she met Sera on her own terms, not yours.”

“Rachel would get a drug addiction. You would get a room in the county jail. I didn’t think I’d have to spell that out for you.”

I drop myself into a chair across the table from James. Silent alarms, cameras, police, lawyers…I could make a deal with James and still tell Rachel about Sera, but sure as shit James would somehow magically find out about it. Fuck.

“Stop riding Rachel’s ass to get perfect grades and dazzle everyone she meets. You do that and Rachel meets Sera.”

“Very well. We have a deal.”

“It shouldn’t have to be a deal, but whatever.”

James takes a photo out of his inner suit pocket and shows it to me: Sera, smiling weakly, at a table playing cards with four other tired-looking, underweight women while they snack on apple slices. I look closer at the picture—they’re all wearing dark blue, v-necked shirts with white undershirts.

“Where was this picture taken?”

“Suffice it to say that Sera is where she needs to be.”

“They look like they’re in jail.”

“Sera checked herself into rehab. She didn’t want to take any chances. I laud her willingness to do the right thing. When you meet with her, Sera will be accompanied by an orderly from the clinic at a time and place of your choosing with my approval. My personal presence would only serve to complicate things.”

“I could have told you that. Just not why.”

“Sera would try to take advantage of the situation and play to my sympathies. She doesn’t know you, but she may try to employ similar methods against you. Don’t let her fool you—she is not your friend.”

“But Rachel is.”

“I don’t ever want to see Rachel in a picture like this.” He puts the Polaroid back into his suit jacket. “And I know you don’t either. You can help her have a normal life.”

I have no idea what the fuck that is.


	15. Chapter 15

When I walk down the stairs of a house that isn’t a Stepford mansion to the far less elegant and non-familial sight of David fucking Madsen proposing to my mother in front of the kitchen stove, I have half a mind to drive at top speed straight back to Rachel’s house, bust down the door to James’s office study, and give him a big ol’ bear hug. “James, you’re the best,” I’d say. “You deal with unwanted suitors by having them drugged and kidnapped.”

It takes me a minute to collect myself to the sound of Mom losing her shit in the kitchen. I can’t tell whether she’s yelling at David for going straight from packing up to marrying up or because she’s just made herself the third dumbest person in the universe right after David and yours truly. When I finally appear behind the dining room table, Mom shows me the thrift store diamond David’s unemployed ass managed to scrounge up. I butterfly my arms across my chest and sigh dramatically before flipping them both the bird. There’s a special place in hell for daughters who give their mothers the finger, and I’m pretty sure I just scored front row seats to the hellfire and brimstone extravaganza. Mom is too psyched to do anything other than trap me in an arm prison while David stands there staring at me like I’m a dog that just took a shit on the carpet.

“Chloe,” Mom says. “I wish you could understand how happy I am right now.”

“Mom,” I say, extricating myself from her limbs, “I wish you could understand how pissed off I am right now. You think I’m supposed to be happy about this jackass who expects me to behave like an obedient little puppy dog while he erases Dad’s existence from this house? And _you_ help him do it.”

“Chloe, I’m not erasing anything. I need to move on. Dwelling on the past isn’t the way to move forward. We’re still alive and—”

“Well, I wish David wasn’t!”

“Chloe, I understand how you must be feeling right now,” David says.

“No, you don’t understand. But I do. You had this arranged in advance and timed it just as you knew I was coming down the stairs so I’d have to see it.”

“Good grief, young lady,” he says. I don’t even look at him. “That is not what—”

“Fuck you.”

“Chloe, listen to me,” says Mom. “David and I have discussed marriage extensively. What you saw was just a formality. The timing was a happy coincidence.”

“There’s nothing happy about it,” I say. “How long have you had this planned?”

“A month is as long as it took for us to plan everything out. Your aunts and uncles were beside themselves getting all the arrangements made for next month.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they were. Meanwhile, you and David were moving at Mach fucking Ten through the Tunnel of Love.”

“It’s not so much about how fast you move as how true your feelings for one another are,” Mom says.

“Awesome.”

I take out my phone and dial up Rachel’s number. She answers on the second ring like I knew she would.

“What’s up?” she says.

“Oh, not much. My mom just accepted a marriage proposal from David Madsen, so in the spirit of popping the question I was just wondering whether you’d want to pop in to the wedding chapel and pop some champagne before popping my cherries?”

“Sure.”

David’s man-brows reach for his hairline.

“Exactly,” I say. “You see what your eyebrows just did, Captain Porn-stache? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Mom folds her arms.

“I wasn’t expecting you to meet someone so soon, but I suppose if that’s where things are heading, we could certainly have a double wedding next month.”

“Damn right—wait, did you say next month?”

“June fourteenth,” says David. “Flag Day, the day on which the United States Army was founded, a branch of the service in which I served with distinction.”

I step back, all the way back into the living room, up against the back of the couch.

“You’re getting married next fucking month? Seriously, Sergeant Shitmonster? Have you been huffing your own farts? A goddamn _month_?”

“Chloe,” says David, “believe it or not, I know what you’re feeling.”

“No, you don’t.”

“On the dining room table, there’s a picture of a man I once knew. A man of courage, integrity, honor. A man I was proud to call friend. He died to a roadside bomb. He didn’t deserve it. I spent a long time angry at the world for taking him from me. Eventually, I made my peace. I just want you to know, Chloe, that I’m here for you.”

“And that’s the fucking problem,” I say. I pick up the picture of David’s buddy. I don’t even see the camouflaged figure in sunglasses. “You’re tearing this fucking family apart and you don’t even know it.”

I grip the picture with all my might. David makes a noise in the kitchen.

“Would you tear up a picture of your own father?” he asks.

The one with me and Max in it? Maybe. Knowing me, though, Max would somehow get hurt. I drop the picture onto the dining room table.

“Chloe, your mother and I—”

Before David even opens his mouth again I want to launch him into the fucking sun. Instead, I do the next best thing and flip our tiny little fuckoff-sized dining room table complete with lunch for three and a pitcher of lemonade.

“Hey!” says David. “You are out of order, young lady!”

“Fuck you! You say that when I get out of fucking bed in the morning!”

“ _Chloe!_ ” Mom snaps at me.

My mind goes blank, my face fills with white-hot heat. I stomp through the living room and into the foyer. David appears in front of me like he’s going to cut me off. Fuck you, asshole, I already had someone do that to me.

“Chloe, I would be honored to attend your life bonding ceremony with Rachel,” he says.

I stumble and hit my shin on the stairs. It hurts like a bitch, but I pretend it never happened—none of this happened. I was never here.

“Just let her go,” says Mom. “She’ll figure it out.”

David must not be completely stupid because I don’t hear him say a goddamn word. I slam open my door, slip on my boots, grab my cigarettes and keys, and monkey swing my way through the open window above my desk so fast that I hit my head against the bottom of the window frame. I don’t give a flying fuck—I fucking fly off the top of the garage and land on the asphalt driveway so hard that my ankles put me straight onto my ass. The shin I hit against the stairs screams at me.

“Chloe?”

“Rachel. You’re still there. I’m going to the junkyard.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Everything and everyone else can fuck right off. Ten minutes of pissed-off driving and premeditated lung cancer accompany me to the local trash pit. When I get there, I’m going to find that baseball bat again and smash the everliving shit out of every fucking thing in sight.


	16. Chapter 16

“Good news,” says Rachel. “I’m coming to dinner.”

“Well, I’ve already gone ahead and trashed the table in anticipation of your arrival. Hope you don’t mind.”

She swats my chest with the back of her hand.

“Fuck! How do you hit so hard with such skinny arms?”

“I do a lot of homework. Speaking of which, I have more good news. Keep your eyes on the road, please. Here’s the situation: you will be in the eleventh grade next year. I will be eligible for Advanced Placement next year. With me so far?”

“You lost me at the part where I’m attending school.”

I turn off the highway and head into the neighborhood that leads to our dinner date with Dickhead David.

“It’s just a formality,” Rachel says. “I’ll be dropping my Honors courses so I can take all the same classes as you. I serve as your personal tutor, you massage my shoulders until I tell you to stop. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like it’s supposed to put my mind at ease, but we’ve already come up with specialized plans to get me ‘back on track’ and none of those worked out.”

“I should have clarified: it’s our backup plan.”

“Backup plan?”

“If you didn’t find anything out about Sera in my dad’s office.” She gives me this really fucking weird look that kinda creeps me out. “You did. I can see it in your eyes.”

_I was mixing the dough for chocolate chip cookies by hand while Max got the eggs out of the refrigerator. Dad was trying to figure out how to set the time and temperature on our fancy new oven._

_“Set phasers to bake,” he announced._

_“Dad, it’s not a Star Trek oven,” I said. “You have to use manual input.”_

_“Ah, knobs and buttons. How quaint.”_

_I was really getting into beating the shit out of the batter while Max dropped in the eggs one at a time._

_“Needs more salt! Steady on the flour! Ready the chocolate chips!”_

_“Uh oh,” said Dad. “Looks like some of our baking supplies have been purloined.”_

_Max had a guilty look on her face._

_“Max, you little shit. You ate all the chocolate chips, didn’t you?”_

_She looked down at the floor._

_“Yes.”_

_“Fortunately,” said Dad, hoisting aloft an enormous plastic bag, “I went shopping while you two party-poopers were still sleeping.”_

_I reached over with one flour-covered hand and messed up Moral Max’s perfectly straight brown hair. She fucking hated it when I did that._

_Later that night—midnight to be exact—I came downstairs to sneak some cookies. Max sat at the table in front of a plate with three cookies on it. She handed me one._

_“Thanks, Max.”_

_“Now when your Dad asks, I can tell him I didn’t eat_ all _the cookies.”_

_“Smart thinking.”_

_“Just like you weren’t being a_ complete _ass today when you messed up my hair.”_

_“You know what, Max?” I said. “I’m not even mad at you.”_

_And then I gave her a chocolaty kiss on the cheek she had to scrub off with a paper towel._

Rachel shakes my shoulder. I check the other three stop signs and drive through the intersection.

“The only thing I found in your dad’s office was trouble,” I say.

“Is Sera in trouble?” Rachel asks.

“I don’t think so. Your dad was a real dick about it, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“He asked me all kinds of questions, like a private detective. A dick.”

“Highly appropriate word choice. Maybe you won’t need so much help with your homework, after all.”

I generally prefer to haul the ladder out of the garage and climb into the house through my window above the garage, so walking in through the front door on Rachel’s arm is a bit of a novelty for me. There’s a pocket radio next to the answering machine on the shelves right outside the kitchen. Super-old-school jazz blares from a pair of circular speakers too small to contain the sounds. I can only wonder what Rachel thinks of the peeling plaster and off-white, paint-chipped walls in this run-of-the-mill factory model shithole. She runs her fingers along the rim of a floor vase Mom picked up at a department store clearance sale for $10.

“Cool umbrella holder,” she murmurs.

“Is that you, Chloe?” calls Mom.

“Hello, Mr. Madsen!” Rachel calls. “And Ms. Price! Or, should I say, ‘Mrs. Madsen’?”

I projectile vomit all the way into the living room. In my mind, that is. In reality, I put one hand on the back of my neck as I try to come up with a way to disappear into the shadows on the wall or maybe levitate my way up through the ceiling. I hide behind Rachel when Mom peeks into the hallway, but Rachel puts her arm around my waist and shoves me forward.

“Rachel,” says Mom. “It’s so nice to see you…under more pleasant circumstances. These are more pleasant circumstances, I hope, Chloe?”

“Hi, Mom,” I say without looking up.

“Chloe invited me over for dinner!”

Rachel throws her hands up in the air like she’s just won a carnival game unicorn that flies around shooting rainbows out of its ass. She reaches out and shakes the hand that David extends to her.

“Nice to meet you, Rachel,” he says. “I’m glad we didn’t have to make our acquaintance in Principal Wells’s office.”

“It wouldn’t have been so bad. I’ve already been reinstated as his administrative assistant. Should I put in a good word for you? See if they have any openings?”

Mom smiles. “You’ve only been here a minute and you’re already trying to get my future husband employed. David and I would be delighted to have you for dinner this evening. It seems we so very rarely get to spend time together with Chloe.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Madsen,” says Rachel. “I should have brought flowers. It’s the least I could have done.”

“Call me Joyce. I’m sure just having you here will be treat enough, Rachel. We’re lucky our roses are still intact after someone upended the table earlier today.”

“I’ll do my best to help Chloe see the positive side of things.”

“Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you girls have a seat while David and I finish things up in the kitchen?”

Rachel takes my hand and leads me to an un-flipped-over dining room table. I sit us down facing the double doors overlooking the back yard so I don’t have to watch David and Mom doing the horizontal tango in the kitchen. My gaze wanders along the wooden slats of the fence outside while I try to think of how I’m going to make it through dinner.

“Who’s that in the pirate picture with you?” asks Rachel.

She’s already up out of her chair over by the tiny little television set on top of our tiny little entertainment center. I don’t even need to turn my head to know who she’s talking about.

“That would be Max.” The ghost.

“She’s really cute.”

I crane my neck over toward the living room and peer at the picture for a moment.

“You’re right,” I say. “She is.”

I was going to playfully ask her whether she’s jealous but here’s David’s hairy man-arm putting a man-sized pan of fried chicken on the table. It’s on top of a manly man’s stack of dishtowels—this is the way the chefs here in the Price household plate our award-winning dishes. Rachel sits down next to me as the potatoes and gravy are coming in. She gives me a peck on the cheek right as Mom and David take their chairs opposite us. There’s this super weird pause for like half a second where they freeze up in the middle of sitting down and then we all carry on pretending time and space didn’t just cop a squat over a cosmic toilet bowl and drop a giant deuce. Rachel eats her hamburger with a knife and fork while the rest of us cave dwellers double-fist our meat and bread and stuff it into our faces.

“Congratulations on your wedding day!” she says in between wolf-sized bites. Is _cognitive dissonance_ the phrase you use to describe a high-flying girl who eats a burger with silverware and still downs it faster than everyone else at the table? “You must be so happy.”

“Thank you, Rachel,” says David.

“Oh, we are,” says Mom.

“It’s written all over your faces.” Rachel inhales a fork full of potatoes. “Has Chloe told you yet?”

“Told us what?” says Mom.

“Oh?” says David. “Do you have some good news to share?”

I hear the hidden ‘for once’ at the end of that sentence. I want to slap his face so hard that his mustache flies off into the fireplace. Ideally, I’d get to listen to it scream in an Alvin and the Chipmunks voice as it burns into cinders.

“Chloe said she’d like to take me to your wedding as her plus one,” says Rachel. “If that’s all right with you.”

Mom and David look at each other. I look at Rachel. Rachel gives me a banana split-eating grin.

“Oh, my,” says Mom.

She turns to David and nods at him with raised eyebrows. David slams his milk.

“Rachel,” he says, “we would be honored to have you and Chloe at our wedding. You don’t know how much this means to us.”

“Why don’t we go to the department store tomorrow and pick out a dress?” says Mom.

Slender fingers with elaborately manicured nails appear on my leg not far from my waist.

“Sure,” I hear myself saying.

“Outstanding!” says David.

“I can come too, if you wouldn’t mind,” says Rachel. “I could call my parents after dinner to make sure it’s okay.”

“That would be fantastic, Rachel,” says Mom.

I come back to the land of the give-a-shits when Rachel stands up.

“Thank you for the excellent meal, Joyce,” she says. “Your cooking was impeccable.”

Big band music plays softly on the radio. I stare at the old portrait of me and Max dressed up as Captain Blue Beard and Long Max Silver.

“She’s a very charming and beautiful young woman,” Mom says under her breath. “I can see why you like her. You’re very lucky to have someone like her around.”

Rachel walks into the dining room with a huge smile on her face.

“We’re on for tomorrow,” she says.

“That’s wonderful,” says Mom.

“Joyce, would it be all right with you if I were to stay here tonight? Chloe and I want to look over the classes we’ll be taking together in the fall.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Mom gives me a sidelong glance. “Classes? Where?”

“Oh, Chloe didn’t tell you? I’m going to ask my dad to get Chloe back into Blackwell.”

“Rachel, you are just full of surprises,” says Mom. She puts one hand on her hip. “Is this something you’re on board with, Chloe?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m taking up art.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” says Mom. “Something new for you to branch out into, help you explore your talents.”

“Drawing on something other than walls would be a welcome change,” says David. He walks into the living room, wiping his hands with an old towel that looks like it needs its own towel. “Do you have a contingency plan, soldier?”

“I’m not a soldier.”

“My parents are letting me go on a three-day road trip this summer,” says Rachel. “Chloe could come with me and apply to some of the private schools around here while we’re at it, just in case.”

“Coming from a proven achiever, that sounds like a solid proposal,” says David. “I still have my doubts. We’ve financed Chloe’s studies thus far and received a suspension for our efforts.”

“I was on a scholarship.”

Rachel takes something from her back pocket, unfolds it, and hands it to David. He looks over the sheet of paper. Mom stands beside him and reads along as he…turns the page. It’s stapled.

“You’ve put quite a bit of thought into this,” says David. “As the head of this household, I appreciate it when people put effort into making sure things around here run smoothly.”

As soon as I open my mouth, Rachel puts her hand on my shoulder.

“I’m going to tutor Chloe personally,” she says. “I make the honor roll every semester.”

“I see,” says David. “Now that you’ve got a plan of action mapped out, I have a lot more confidence in Chloe’s ability to get back on track under your leadership. Mind if I keep this?”

“Go ahead,” says Rachel. “I have one more thing that you can keep, Mr. Madsen. I’ll be right back.”

When Rachel returns, I’m counting the number of spackle marks on the kitchen ceiling. I’m up to sixteen.

“My mother and father wanted to congratulate you on your happy day,” Rachel says.

She sets a huge, rectangular block of plastic on the floor.

“Bedsheets,” says Mom. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“Seriously?” I say.

“When my parents moved us into our new house, they bought these, but never used them. I thought it would make the perfect wedding gift for a couple ready to start a new life together.”

“Oh, hell no,” I say.

David picks the plastic block up off the floor.

“Luxury Italian linens. Thank you, Rachel. This is an excellent, practical gift that we’ll be sure to put to good use.”

David chuckles and walks off in the direction of the garage. Rachel puts her arm around my shoulders and starts singing a song from Mary Poppins as we head up the stairs.

“Don’t you mean a spoonful of ‘sugar’?” I say. “You just sang your own name.”

“I know. Aren’t I just the sweetest?” She swats the back of my jeans. “Meet me in your bedroom when you’re done dry heaving into the toilet.”

“Okay. See you in a week.”

Later, after I’ve scrubbed my hands and Rachel’s spending a year blow-drying her freshly washed hair, I sneak down into the basement.

[5/15/2010 7:30PM] James Amber: She’ll meet you there.


	17. Chapter 17

“Did you lose something?” says a puffy-cheeked man in white robes.

Rachel sweeps her hand over the diamond-patterned floor of the chapel’s interior while I try to figure out what she’s doing. She looks at me out of the corner of her eye like I’m supposed to be able to read her mind. The portly dude with red cheeks and a pair of purple racing stripes that hang down to his knees looks at me like I know the answer to his question. His spectacles went out of fashion a hundred years ago.

“I’m looking for my contact lens,” says Rachel. “I’m sure we’ll find it eventually. This happens all the time, unfortunately.”

“I see,” says the priest.

“Of course you do,” I say. “You’re wearing glasses.”

Rachel’s laughter fills the stained-glass arches of a building more suited to conducting Very Serious Business. It occurs to me that she’s not actually looking for anything.

“Don’t mind my assistant,” she says. “She’s a bit of a smarty-pants.”

“As your assistant, I feel as though I should be…assisting you.”

“Like I said.”

I kneel down next to her and run my fingers along the floor. Rachel told me I looked cute because my hair matches the cobalt blue bridesmaid dresses we picked out. I’m not a fan of the lacy, floral meshwork that covers my neck and arms—it’s more like something Dana would wear—but I am a fan of what Dana would look like in one of these dresses. What were we looking for again?

“I do have a young woman inquiring as to your whereabouts,” says the priest. “Shall I let her know you’re here?”

Rachel glances at me sideways. I play with one of the flowers on my collarbone.

“My mom already knows where we are,” I say. “She’s just checking up on me, like moms do.”

“Indeed,” says the priest. “Best of luck to you in your search. I hope to see you at the reception outside. With any luck, you’ll _see_ me as well.”

As soon as His Holiness is through the arched double doors, Rachel grabs my wrist and runs me to a narrow opening on the right-hand side of the pews that opens up into a long hallway. I want to ask her what we’re doing in here, but her finger is on my lips before I can open my mouth. I stand watch while Rachel enters open doors one by one. The stained glass pattens inside the chapel are even better than the ones at Rachel’s house. Rachel’s waving arm summons me to her side inside an empty storage room big enough to accommodate an entire choir of mischief-making angels.

“That’s it?” I say.

Rachel’s finger is on her own lips this time. When she moves to close the heavy oak doors, I stop her.

“None of these were closed. Someone will know something is up.”

“Good thinking.”

Rachel hauls herself up onto the top seat of a stack of white plastic lawn chairs. She still has to go up on the tips of her toes to scan the brown shelf that runs the length of the room near the ceiling. A bottle of wine magically appears in her hand.

“I should have known,” I whisper.

I start stuffing bottles in the duffel bag she had hidden underneath her dress. When the bottles start making too much noise, Rachel opens up the nearby wooden cabinet and pulls out a trio of full-length, cream-colored robes. I weave the fabric in between the bottles.

“Isn’t this some kind of sacrilege?” I ask.

“Since when do you care about that?” she whispers.

“What are these for?”

She hands me another bottle.

“My dad.”

“Can’t he just go to the store?”

“It tastes better when it’s not yours, remember?”

“Right.”

By the time we’re done, I’ve counted twenty-four bottles. Rachel’s bag is so stuffed it barely zips shut. I look up and down the hall while Rachel slides the lawn chairs back into place. I get a glimpse of the priest accompanied by a woman in a short-sleeved white dress—they’re heading back into the chapel. I walk over to a stack of metal rods resting on an ankle-level brown shelf and pull at one of them with the sole of my slipper. Because it’s me, the entire set comes crashing down, making all the noise we just spent the last ten minutes trying very hard to avoid.

Rachel shoves the duffel bag into my chest. I hoist the single strap over my shoulder and sway under the weight. Rachel works on piling the camera tripods back onto the shelf.

“Shit,” she says. “Let’s just walk out of here like we’re supposed to be doing this.”

“Supposed to be doing what?” says a man’s voice.

Rachel runs her thumb at light speed along her phone’s lock screen. Our priest friend is at the storage room’s entrance with a massive bible in his clasped hands.

“I’m so sorry,” Rachel says. “We’re here to do some scene shots. My employer sent me here on half an hour’s notice without the necessary equipment and asked me to improvise. I couldn’t find the equipment manager and we’re already running behind. Would you mind, terribly, if we were to use one of these tripods?”

“That won’t be necessary,” says the priest. “I’ve been apprised of the situation.”

“You have?“ says Rachel.

“You have?” I say.

“Your… _employer_ …was it? Has been looking for you.”

I look at Rachel. Rachel looks at me with a frown. Rachel’s mirror image appears in the entrance—the way she’ll look twenty years from now: an angular, hardened face, a colorful wreath of flowers tattooed on one arm, and a smile that bears the weariness associated with the misfortune of having been born. She’s accompanied by a frizzy-haired woman in glasses and blue scrubs.

“Mom?” says Rachel.

“Your mother?” The priest cocks one eyebrow. “Ah, yes. A family business. I understand now. I’ll leave you to your work. Please leave the doors open when you’re finished.”

The orderly closes the doors for us. She takes a plastic chair from the stack and sits down on it. Her head is in her phone.

“I’ve been trying to meet you for so long,” Rachel says.

Sera embraces her. To my surprise, she does the same to me. Hugging her is like wrapping my arms around the skeleton they keep in the back of the science classroom at Blackwell.

“How did you know where to find me?” Rachel asks.

“James made arrangements,” Sera says.

She sits down on the hard, thin carpet. Rachel and I join her.

“I have some pretty heavy stuff to tell you,” she says. “I don’t want to burden Chloe with it.”

Rachel gives me a funny look.

“It’s cool,” I say as I stand up. “I’ll wait outside.”

“My _girlfriend_ and I have been through a lot together,” Rachel says to me. “We don’t keep any secrets from each other.” I sit back down. “Anything you tell me, you can tell her.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m sure, you dumbass.”

Sera laughs with a chronic smoker’s wheeze. I can smell the Virginia Slims from here.

“This is how we do it in group, outside on the grass,” she says. “I’ve never liked plastic.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Rachel says.

“Yeah, I try not to use any animal products,” I say.

“Good for you,” says Sera. “I’m a country girl, myself. I came through Portland on my way into town. I suppose if I had to live in a big city, that wouldn’t be so bad. But I like it out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“You actually like Arcadia Bay?” I ask.

“The idea of it, yeah. Doesn’t really matter to me exactly where it is.”

“Portland’s on our bucket list for this summer’s road trip,” Rachel says.

“Road trip? Sounds like you two are going to be living it up.”

“That’s the plan. What about your plans?”

Sera sighs. “This is the only time I get to see you. Right here, right now. When I get out, I’m heading off to Wichita.”

“By yourself?”

“I met a guy. He did some things he’s not proud of. But everyone deserves a second chance. Nobody is irredeemable.”

“Tell that to my dad.”

“I have been. Trust me, honey, I have been. You have to do a lot to change his mind.”

“I know…are you in prison?”

“Kind of.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s better that you don’t. Trust me.”

“What are you going to do in Wichita?” I ask.

“He’s going to work as a siding contractor, I’m going to be a stay-at-home mom. He wants kids. This time…I’m not going to fuck it up.”

“Can we come with you?” Rachel asks.

Sera shakes her head.

“Soon as I leave this room, it’s straight back to Tillamook.”

“I meant to Kansas.”

“You’re not even sixteen yet. The law frowns on that. Only reason I know is because I’ve had to deal with these things more than I’ve ever wanted to. Just trust me when I tell you it’s for the best. James said he’ll let you read my letters.”

“Letters? Can’t you text?”

“Nope. No e-mails, no video calls, none of that.” She shakes her head and hangs her hair over her crossed legs. She’s got a little dragon tattoo on one of her calves, barely visible. “James says he’ll let you read letters and nothing else. There’s a whole stack of envelopes waiting for you at home, he tells me.” Sera smiles weakly and puts her fingers to her lips. “Old habits.”

“A cigarette sounds good right about now,” I say.

“I could use one, too,” Rachel says.

“Don’t start,” says Sera. “Take it from me. Anybody tries to get you hooked on anything, you run away like your ass is on fire. Sorry for the language.”

Rachel laughs.

“I’m sorry. Have you met Chloe? She makes sailors sound like Sunday school teachers.”

“Yo,” I say. “I’m cool with Kansas. Dorothy Twister is one of my favorite bands.”

“You have good taste in music,” Sera says. “Wish we could go to a concert together some time.”

“That would be awesome,” I say.

“Awesome and impossible. I had this fantasy about us running away together, the three of us, and starting a new life somewhere. Believe me, I wish with all my heart that we could make that happen. But we can’t. I’m really sorry about that, Rachel. I really am.”

“The three of us?” Rachel says.

She looks at me. I look at Sera.

“You didn’t want to take Chloe with you?” Sera asks. “That’s a lonely road.”

“I meant, how do you know Chloe? And how did you know about my plan?”

“James said the meeting would be supervised by your friend, Chloe.”

“Oh.”

“People have a lot of time to make up stories while they have nothing to do but wait,” I say to Rachel. “Like in hospitals.”

“And clinics,” says Sera. “But I see more than some people realize. They make assumptions about our interiors based on our exteriors.”

Sera runs her hand along a flowered vine tattoo that snakes its way down her upper left arm.

“You mind if I use your tat for inspiration?” I ask. “I’m gonna get one done this summer.”

“You’re talking like old friends,” Rachel says.

“Great minds think alike,” says Sera.

“They sure do,” Rachel says. “Did you set this meeting up, Chloe?”

She stares at me. I frown. There’s heat in my face.

“What the fuck, dude? James asked me to keep Sera away from you, not bring you together.”

“Is that so?”

Rachel cocks her head to one side. My fingers tremble. My heart pounds. My legs itch. I stand up and kick the stack of plastic chairs over.

“You fucking prima donna! You know who the fuck this ‘nurse’ is, Rachel? What do you think she’s doing on her phone? I bet she isn’t playing games. Well, I’m done playing yours! I’m sick of your fucking shit!”

The alarm on the orderly’s phone goes off.

“Time to go,” she says.

“Chloe, I’m sorry,” says Rachel.

“I’m sorry too,” says Sera as she stands up. “It was supposed to be longer, but you learn not to trust a word anyone says.”

Rachel moves toward me. I give her my shoulder.

“This can’t be the last time I see you,” Rachel says.

“Take this with you,” says Sera. She works her hands behind her neck and produces a silver cross on a thin-linked, sterling chain. “You don’t need to believe in anything or anyone but yourself. This’ll remind you in case you forget.”

They embrace until the orderly tugs at Sera’s dress sleeve. I let Rachel put her arm around my waist and pull me into her.

“It’s said that fallen angels sometimes take refuge in chapels,” she whispers. “When your wings are clipped, you have nowhere else to go.”


	18. Chapter 18

“You know what the best part of Arcadia Bay is?” I ask Rachel.

“What?”

“The sign that says ‘You Are Now Leaving Arcadia Bay’.”

Rachel smiles at me from behind a pair of movie star shades that take up half her face as she cruises down the highway toward Portland in my piece of shit truck accompanied by a pair of mom and pop coffees, greasy Friday hangover food, and cancer sticks. We skimmed a couple of those wine bottles Rachel pilfered for her Dad—that shit went down like water and lasted us almost a month until one day the remaining bottles just disappeared from my room (fuck you very much, step-commando). That was also the day our road trip was approved on the condition that we check in with our overlords every day at dinner time or suffer the wrath of the mustache. I celebrate by putting both my hands out the window and flipping off the entire city of Arcadia Bay.

“Don’t be a dumbass,” laughs Rachel as she guides my rusty shitbucket through a curve.

Two hours later, we’re changing inside a decent hotel room—decent because the beds don’t have cockroaches and the curtains haven’t been used as bedsheets.

“Ready to fuckin’ thrash!” Rachel says.

She gives herself the devil horns in the dresser-top mirror. I groan and fall stomach-first onto the bed.

“Shut the fuck up!” she laughs.

Rachel swats at my back with her arms as she lands on top of me, and then her hands are on my sides, trying to tickle me to death. I writhe and kick underneath her.

“Good thing you brought your stomping boots to fend off all those unwanted suitors,” she says.

“Oh, please. If anyone’s the bro-killer here, it’s you.”

When we arrive at the stadium entrance, we’re greeted by a row of beefy dudes with tattoos and tight-fitting black shirts that say SECURITY on them. They’re letting the good-looking girls through without a second glance and patting down any guy in baggy clothing.

“I’m going to need to see your ID,” Bald Guy says without even looking at me.

“Here you go,” says Rachel.

She hands him the card she used to check into the hotel. He looks it over longer than he needs to, then hands it back to her.

“You’re good to go,” he says. “Still need to see yours.”

“She’s with me,” says Rachel.

“I’m sure she is.”

“I’m legit,” I say. “I’m buds with the lead singer of Devil Bunnies.”

Bald Guy rolls his eyes. “Everybody is. What’s your name? We’ll check in with her.”

“Fuck You. That’s my name.”

“Cute, kid. I’m gonna need to see an ID otherwise your name is gonna be Get The Fuck Outta Here.”

“Did I say the lead singer of Devil Bunnies? I meant Pisshead. Skip Matthews. He and I go way back.”

“Pisshead? The warm-up band? Yeah, we got a list here.” He nudges a guy behind him with his elbow and says a couple of words. Dude hands him a clipboard. “This time, your real name.”

“Chloe Price.”

Bald Guy flips up a page on the clipboard and runs his finger down it. He arches his eyebrows and purses his lips.

“No shit. Enjoy the show, kid.”

As soon as the music starts up, the massive stadium is somehow completely packed with people. We thrash until our bodies are sweaty and exhausted, then thrash some more. The crowd is totally cool and into it. At some concerts, people are just looking for fights, but here, nobody gets punched in the face. When you get knocked down, a bunch of hands haul you back up to your feet and start tossing you all over the place again.

Mid-way through the set I notice some dude up in the nosebleeds who looks like he’s staring at me. Rachel jumps on top of me and kisses me until I stop caring. When she releases me, the dude is gone.

The concert wraps up before we’re ready to be done, but that’s how it always is. We pass out high-fives as we walk past rows of vendors with our arms around each other. We wolf down hot dogs and chug sodas (the guys selling beer wave us away without even looking), then walk back to our hotel room where we collapse onto the bed, too tired to shower, get high, or make out.

As soon as we hit the mattress, Rachel sits up and yanks her jean jacket off, tossing it onto the floor. She grabs the bottom of her t-shirt, lifts it over her head, and sends it on top of her jacket. She’s not wearing a bra. I decide to do the same, and when I’m done, I’m not wearing a bra, either. Rachel’s jeans disappear. Mine follow. We fall asleep like that in each other’s arms, adrift on a sea of buzzing guitars and hard-driving bass lines.

For the first time in a long time, I feel really rested when I wake up. The morning’s light breeze feels good against my bare skin. It blows in through the open window, rippling along the inside of the puffy white curtains as it does.

“Put a shirt on, you dork,” says Rachel.

She kisses me on the cheek, so I put a shirt on.

“Where to next?” I ask.

“Ever been to California?”

“I’ve never been anywhere.”

“You want to see Long Beach?”

“Hell yeah.”

I’m halfway through my cigarette, daydreaming about a city full of weird looking trees shitting leaves all over the sidewalks when I get this nagging sensation like I’m forgetting something.

“Oh, shit.”

I take my phone out of my pocket and flip it open. Five missed calls from Mom during the concert when I couldn’t hear shit else but the music. I thumb the photo I took of her one day at the diner after she told off a trucker to a round of applause. I inhale my joint down to my fingertips. When I exhale, I’m not in an alternate reality like I hoped I would be. Mom picks up on the third ring.

“Chloe,” says David.

“Well, fuck this shit.”

“Language!”

“Let me talk to my mom. You know, the person who actually owns this phone?”

“She’s making breakfast right now. We were expecting you to check in last—”

“Yeah, yeah. We were at a concert and I forgot. I’m sure my mom can talk and serve food at the same time. She’s been doing it for years. You know, a job?”

“It’s hard for someone in my position to—I don’t have to explain this to you.”

There’s hissing in the background when Mom comes on the line.

“You didn’t check in last night, Chloe. You know what the agreement was.”

“I’m sorry, all right? Rachel and I were at a concert and I forgot. We’re staying with one of Rachel’s friends. Nobody’s stalking or murdering us.”

“That is not funny, young lady. You need to check in every evening. Not the morning after, not whenever you feel like it—”

“I get it. I’ll check in—”

“Six o’clock. On the dot. This is not up for discussion.”

“But—”

“Not another word from you.”

I take the phone away from my face. Rachel raises an eyebrow.

“Chloe?” says Mom. “ _Chloe._ You said you were going to see a play in Ashland yesterday. What was the name of it?”

“Are you asking me because you’re interested or because you’re quizzing me on where I was?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re sixteen years old and I expect you to tell your mother what you’re doing on a road trip.”

“Fine. It was a play called _She Loves Me_ about two people who are so stupid they don’t realize they’re in love with each other. They work in a Hungarian perfume shop in the 1930s and they sing songs every five minutes.”

“All right.” My phone starts crackling. I take it away from my ear. “You’re on speakerphone. Where did you say you were going today?”

“Why am I on speakerphone?”

“Chloe—” says David.

My phone lands on the bed next to Rachel. She sits up. I give the phone the one finger salute and mouth the words _fuck David_. Rachel picks up the phone and puts her hand over the speaker.

“Just tell him the truth,” she whispers. “What’s he going to do about it?”

“He doesn’t deserve the truth. Besides, if I tell him the truth he’s going to start expecting it.”

She shrugs her shoulders and sets the phone in her lap.

“We’re going to Eugene to visit some of Rachel’s relatives,” I say loud enough for the room next door to hear.

“I talked with Mr. Amber,” says David. “He doesn’t have any relatives in Eugene.”

“What? Are you helping him map out his family tree?”

“I am your legal guardian. It is my responsibility to make sure that you are safe and protected.”

“Hi, Mr. Madsen,” says Rachel. “My father isn’t on friendly terms with the aunt and uncle we’re going to visit. Sometimes when people inquire about their health, my dad tells them they’re dead.”

“I see,” says David. “That’s…interesting. None of my business, I suppose.”

“Call us tonight at six and let us know you’ve arrived safely,” says Mom. “We’ll want to check in with Rachel’s relatives as well. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

I look at Rachel. She doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Six o’clock,” Mom says. “Before I let you go, David would like to—”

_Click._

Long Beach is so far away that we have to spend Saturday night in a hotel in Sacramento before heading out early the next day. It’s almost six in the evening on Sunday when we hit a place called Redondo Beach, which is where Rachel told me to go so we don’t get yelled at for not being able to keep up with the Formula One racers who flip me off as they go sailing past me. I pass a white-haired granny in a flip-top Corvette wearing a pair of sunglasses with lenses the size of waffles.

“I’m hungry,” I say.

“You missed our turn,” says Rachel. “Flip a bitch.”

That’s a new one to me, but Rachel must know what she’s talking about, so I flip off grandma. She scowls at me and yells something in Italian before peeling out and leaving us in the dust. At least, I think it’s Italian. Whatever it is, I just hope I don’t get whacked at the next restaurant we eat at. Rachel laughs and punches me in the arm.

“Make a U-turn.”

After making super ultra double plus sure to check in with our overlords at six o’clock PM on the dot, we check in with the manager at our fancy hotel and immediately order room service: grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup that arrive at our room before we do. Somehow, they’ve managed to outdo the best-in-town fare Mom serves up at the diner: it’s some fucked up-looking wheat bread with grill marks on it and a kind of cheese called Gruyère that tastes like an angel just took a buttery shit in your mouth. Rachel eats about as fast I do, but with surgical precision that looks like more effort than it’s worth.

When my phone buzzes me awake, the sun has already been up for a couple of hours.

[7/26/2010 8:30AM] David: Chloe, this is your mother. Can you call me, please? I can’t find my phone.

Yeah fucking right, David. I grab Rachel’s phone.

[7/26/2010 8:32AM] Rachel: hey Steph, it’s Chloe Price  
[7/26/2010 8:35AM] Steph: Oh, hey, Chloe. What’s up?  
[7/26/2010 8:36AM] Rachel: step-dork is trying to track me down  
[7/26/2010 8:37AM] Rachel: can you call “my mother” and hang up when david picks up  
[7/26/2010 8:37AM] Steph: I’m on it.  
[7/26/2010 8:39AM] Steph: Mission accomplished.  
[7/26/2010 8:40AM] Chloe: you rock, dude

After breakfast and a dip in the hotel’s swimming pool—which is weird because we’re about to spend all day at the beach—we head down to the ocean. Rachel buys me a white t-shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans and gets herself a two-piece swimsuit that isn’t quite a bikini. She has me pick up a disposable camera (who uses those?) and take some shots of her jumping up in the air with her arms at her sides and her legs tucked up beneath her like a beached shark is trying to take a bite out of her. When the camera’s all used up, she runs up and down the beach offering to take pictures for tourists.

“Why don’t you just buy another camera?” I ask.

“I need the exposure,” she says.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“You never know where my big break might come from.”

She churns through the sand with her bare feet, inserting herself into family photo albums until she’s approached by a guy in a suit and sunglasses that look too cool—and too hot—for a public beach filled with swimming trunks and bikinis. And why the fuck should I be surprised when Rachel starts posing for him? Arms up, arms out, hands on hips, sitting yoga, post-run stretches, lying on her side, stomach-up bicycle kicks, stomach-down nap wearing the guy’s sunglasses, standing up blowing a kiss, going behind a shaved ice stand and taking off her bikini top—

“Let me help you with that,” I say.

“I was just adjusting it,” she says.

“You know how easily you burn.”

When the guy laughs, I can tell he’s done it hundreds of times before because it sounds like the shit you’d hear on an early morning radio talk show. He takes his sunglasses back and takes his wallet out.

“We can be done,” he says. “Here you go.”

He hands her a hundred and waves as he walks off.

“You’re going to take it?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t I? He gave me a thumb drive with my pictures on it and his business card. This could lead to big things.”

“What, like a nudie mag?”

“Relax, Chloe. We’re at the beach. Things happen here.” She kisses me on the lips. “Let’s go make postcards so I can have something to send you when we go on family outings.”

“You’re going to be gone that much? Man, I’m going to be lonely.”

“You can put one up in your room.”

We get her postcards made, then return to the hotel and change into our freshly laundered clothes, courtesy of room service. Rachel takes me on a pig-out tour of the local food trucks: Korean-style wings, Italian shaved ice, “Asian fusion” tacos that taste a lot better than they look, and Vietnamese noodle soup from a place called Pho King Awesome that’s pronounced just like I thought it would be. We wind down with some waffle ice cream cones while we check out the tables lining a lamplit, night market boulevard. They’re filled with a whole bunch of useless stuff you never even knew you wanted until you picked it up and thought about it.

I’m staring into a winter-themed snow globe when an obnoxiously loud green muscle car rolls by on our left, the kind that looks like the person who owns it is trying very hard to compensate for a lack of horsepower in other areas. A minute later, it rolls by from the other direction, then comes to a stop not far from us.

“Should we ask this guy for a ride to Mexico?” says Rachel.

“I don’t know if I trust someone with a car that looks just like—”

David steps out and looks around.

“Go. Go!”

We run back to the hotel—half a mile away—and race up to our room in record time. I slam the door shut and lock it, then fall face-first onto the bed, panting hard.

“That was close,” I say.

“Oh, man,” says Rachel from the bathroom. “Hey! What are you doing in here?”

I sit up. Rachel walks backwards out of the bathroom with her hands up in the air. Eliot puts a chair down in front of the hotel room door and sits in it.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Chloe,” he says. “I just want to talk.”

“Okay,” says Rachel.

She sits down on the bed next to me.

“I need your undivided attention. Throw your phones down on the floor.”

We do. He doesn’t move.

Rachel starts up. “I know that—”

I put my hand over Rachel’s mouth. She has no idea who or what the fuck she’s dealing with.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” says Eliot. “I was wrong. Wrong about everything. I’m really sorry for what happened, Chloe.” He nods to himself. “I really am.”

I’ve seen this before. In the movies, when the villain shows up after an extended absence preaching sunshine and flowers and bunny rabbits, it’s never because he’s reformed and he’s sorry for what he’s done and he’s going to atone for all of his previous sins by blowing magic smoke up the world’s ass.

It’s because he has the codes to the fucking nukes.

“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “It’s not just your fault. It’s mine, too. I wasn’t there for you. You felt used, betrayed, unwanted. I was so messed up about my dad that I didn’t even think about your feelings. I’m sorry.”

Eliot closes his eyes and nods.

“Thank you, Chloe. I came here to warn you one last time that Rachel is using you. She doesn’t really care about you.”

Rachel pulls my hand off her mouth.

“That’s not true,” she says. “We’ve been—”

“Shut up, bitch!” I yell at her. “Would you shut the fuck up and listen for once?”

“Chloe, that was rude,” Eliot says.

“Sorry.”

Rachel’s eyes are wide open. Ever so slowly, her eyelids come back into view. Her gaze moves from my eyes to my chin to my chest to her legs. Her head hangs. She says nothing.

“It pains me to hear you talk like that,” says Eliot. “That’s not the Chloe I know from my dreams.”

“Your dreams?”

“The first night we shared together, I had a vision that followed me from the waking realm. We were a family. Our children played on the front lawn while we sat on a swinging bench on the porch. We had our arms around each other; we took long gulps of cool lemonade as we watched the sun go down. It was so beautiful, I woke up in tears. I had never been more at peace, more confident, more reassured than when the truth was revealed to me in that dream.”

Tears are actually coming out of his eyes. I think I’m going to be sick.

“All this pain has come about because we’ve been denying the reality of that perfection,” he says. “I was there for you. You said you needed time to figure things out. I gave you all that and more. And now you’re not even throwing your life away—you’re letting someone else do it for you. Why would you do that?”

I close my eyes. When they open, Max is sleeping on bed before me with her mouth open, drooling onto the comforter. I close her mouth for her—she won’t need it here. Neither will I. Eliot is still. I close my eyes again, open them. A gun rests on Eliot’s lap.

“This is the way it has to be,” he says.

“I know,” I say.

“You _know_?” Rachel says.

“I went to the doctor,” I say. “They did tests. When the results came back, they said I’ll never be able to have children.”

Eliot exhales a long, slow stream of air through pursed lips.

“That’s why,” he says. “That’s why.” He looks at Rachel. “It all makes sense, now. Adoption just wouldn’t be the same. It’s not our flesh and blood.”

Eliot blinks. Breathes in. Breathes out. Licks his lips. Leaves his tongue out. Sucks it in through his teeth.

“The path I chose before I came here is the right one,” he says. “Have you ever wondered about the next life, Chloe?”

“Every time I fall asleep,” I say.

Eliot raises his gun. Rachel hides behind me. Footsteps approach from down the hall. I nod along to life’s soundtrack.

Eliot points the gun at his head, clenches his jaw, and pulls the trigger. He falls to the floor with his eyes open, blood running from his head where he shot himself, his chest still rising and falling. The door blows open. David enters with gun drawn. He points it at Eliot, then holsters it. He looks at me, looks at Rachel, picks up the room phone, and starts barking orders.

Eliot survives. He’s among the five percent of people who live through gunshot wounds to the head, but that’s where his luck ends, if you can call it that. He’ll have to relearn how to talk, eat, shit, piss—all while confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Maybe he can use his hands to control his movements, maybe he’ll have to use his head. David ends his explanation of Eliot’s prognosis by telling me all the things he thinks he could have done to talk some sense into a young man who would be dead if fate hadn’t intervened to save his life.

No, David. Fate had nothing to do with it. Eliot asked Death to help him avenge his own birth, and Death told Eliot to go fuck himself.


	19. Chapter 19

I sit on a padded couch with my sketch pad on my legs trying to think up a scene that outdoes the _Intro to Art A_ shit I already have hanging up inside our cinder block junkyard hideout. Meanwhile, Rachel is engaged in the philosophical battle of the ages trying to come up with three, maybe four words that she can string together and write down under _Chloe was here_.

“How long does it take you to come up with a tag?” I ask.

“Inspiration can’t be rushed,” she says. “How long did it take you to sketch and color your over-endowed bass guitar banshee?”

“The punk rock chick with the huge tits? I don’t know, a week? You need seven days for that shit?”

_Rachel was here._

“On second thought,” she says, “shouldn’t it be ‘Rachel _is_ here’? I prefer to live in the moment.”

“These are notes we’re leaving behind for other people when we’re gone. Living in the moment only applies when you’re actually in a place you want to be.”

“It sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”

“Yeah, I have plenty of time to think about stuff while I’m trapped in an office cubicle with a counselor. Have you ever wondered whether maybe the purpose of your life is simply to serve as a warning to others?”

“Sounds like you’ve had _too_ much time to think, my dear Chloe.”

“Maybe. I also haven’t had access to my medication.”

“Therapy isn’t—”

“Therapy can suck a fucking dick. Talk only goes so far. I have brain damage. So do you. We need to get high.”

Rachel sits down on my lap, sinking me further into the cushions of a cheap retail store couch we dragged in here off the back of my truck. She insisted on buying one so we wouldn’t have to spend an afternoon wrestling a bed bug-infested Frankenstein collection of springs and padding across the oil-caked dirt. I wasn’t a fan of the couch’s original pastel floral design, so I convinced Rachel to let me put a blue denim slip cover over it. In return, she went ahead and replaced the old beach towel I had covering the seat of my truck’s interior with a huge rainbow picnic blanket that makes my rusted out death-trap look a little bit less like a funeral casket.

We’re talking about whether we think Rachel’s fake ID is good enough to get us access to tattoos when there’s a rumbling sound in the distance that isn’t one of the twice-daily trains delivering loads of wood to the Amber estate courtesy of the lumber trucks up north. Outside, an off-white mobile home rolls through the main gate, the kind of second-rate model you might put up on cinder blocks in your front yard so you don’t have to mow the lawn. The rough-looking guy who steps out of the side entrance definitely looks like he’s never worked a day in his life: he sports a beer-stained white t-shirt, a leather bomber jacket, stonewashed jeans without knees, and prison-house tattoos on his neck. He doesn’t pay us any attention—he unzips right then and there and starts relieving himself against the side of his house-on-wheels.

“Sorry,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Frank,” I say. “I know you have a bathroom inside that thing.”

“Price,” says Frank. “The toilet’s plugged up. Can you at least give a man some privacy? Holy shit.”

Rachel and I give him all the privacy in the world. He rewards our kindness by walking into our living room with his fly open.

“So what are you two doing in this fine establishment?” he says.

“Just letting it all hang out,” I say. I point at his crotch. “You?”

_Zip._

“Well, obviously, I came here for the view. And the atmosphere.” He takes a deep inbreath, makes a gagging sound, and launches a phlegm gem into the dirt outside. “And the company. You two even have matching bracelets and started a scrapbook. How precious.”

“And private,” I say. “This is _supposed_ to be the one place in the world where we can get away from everything. And everyone.”

“Last time I checked, this was the _public_ dump. If I were you, I would have ditched this shit pit a long time ago.” He points a grubby hand at Rachel. “Your girlfriend?”

I frown. “Didn’t your mother teach you to wash your hands when you’re done?”

“No, my mother taught me not to piss on my hands. Does Girl Wonder have you covered?”

“What?”

“Look, Price, I have some business I need to take care of in private and I need you two gone. You need some shit?”

“Yes, I need some shit.”

“I thought so.”

Frank returns half a minute later carrying a puffy plastic bag. He tosses it to me. There’s a little white packet the size of a fingernail nestled among the shredded greenery.

“What’s this little baggie?” I ask.

“You call that little? That right there is the good stuff, solves all of life’s problems for a while.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t set him off,” Rachel whispers.

“And maybe we shouldn’t take candy from strangers.” I toss the bag back to Frank. “I bet this is the kind of shit your friend from the mill wanted me to sell for him.”

“Damon’s not in the picture any more. There’s a new sheriff in town and he only does business with people he can trust.”

“Who’s the sheriff?”

“Did you not hear me when I said ‘people he can trust’? That means people who don’t ask questions. Listen, Price, I’m a businessman. I’ll cut you a deal: you do the white stuff to show me you can be trusted, I give you your first bag for free.”

“I’ll just get it from someone else,” I say.

“No,” says Frank, “you won’t. Unless you want to drive out of state. And you clearly don’t, because you weren’t high when I walked in here.”

“I’ll do it,” says Rachel.

“You don’t even look the type,” says Frank. “What’s your problem, Price? You’re a chimney every day.”

“I need shit that helps me relax, not stuff that makes me think about killing myself ten times a minute instead of five.”

“Chloe,” says Rachel, “don’t talk like that. Let me do it.”

“So we can have a junkyard showdown with the sheriff that ends in a trip to the hospital? No thanks.”

Frank spits into the dirt.

“As I recall, people sticking their noses into other people’s business is what started that shit in the first place. Not that you care, Price, but Damon and I have been friends since we were kids, and now he’s going to be gone for who knows how long. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

A train rumbles by, heading south. I trace a semi-circle in the dirt with my shoe.

“How long you need?” I ask.

We stroll up a countryside hill as far as our legs will take us, then sit down in a place where spruce and fir trees give way to hemlock and cedar. I fish out my rolling papers, load them up with Frank’s shit, and exhale Mount Vesuvius into the sky.

“How’s the coke?” I ask.

“Feels like a really strong cup of coffee,” Rachel says.

Rachel shakes her head when I offer her the joint.

“My dad has me on anti-anxiety meds,” she says. “Mostly to alleviate his anxiety.”

“I’m assuming I didn’t get back into Blackwell because your dad is such a nice guy.”

“He doesn’t take a shit without considering the social implications. And he’s already getting catty about me being absent from my Honors courses. Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. Why do you have a picture of you and Nathan hanging up on the wall in your room? He doesn’t exactly have the best reputation.”

“I like to get along with people. When we hang out, we mostly talk about his interests. I let him take photos of me.”

“That’s not creepy to you at all?”

“Why would it be? I was born to be framed and put on display, especially by people who are passionate about their work.”

“So you wouldn’t want to go to a photo booth with me and take a bunch of cheap black-and-whites.”

“Are you sure your boy toy wouldn’t be jealous?”

I punch her in the arm really hard.

“Ow! I don’t know if I can handle this kind of abuse.”

“Sorry. I’ve just never had a…”

“I suppose that does take some getting used to. I might be able to help you if you stop beating me up.”

“Deal.”

When we return to my truck in the middle of the junkyard an hour later, Frank is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he’s left behind a thank-you-for-your-business puddle of urine at the foot of the driver’s door that looks like the product of sloppy aim.

We get in through the other side.


	20. Chapter 20

I wake to the sound of a police siren coming from outside my bedroom window. I start freaking out, looking for a good place to hide the remnants of the stash we scored from Frank last month. David will be pounding on the door any minute now—except it’s almost eight o’clock, which would make step-commando an hour late for his Crowing Cock routine. I exhale a sigh of relief when the siren sound turns out to be Rachel cheering at her laptop screen. She sits at my desk in my wooden chair with one leg up on her lap wearing nothing but a bra and underwear in front of an open window where the neighbors could probably see her if they could be bothered to take out a pair of binoculars and creep on her from across the street.

“Woooo-hooo-hooooo!”

She’s got a browser window open with something that looks like a small animal crawling around. What the fuck is she watching on her—you cannot be fucking serious. She’s watching cat videos.

“I swear to fucking god, Rachel. I knew there were skeletons in your closet. And do you seriously need to have the window open? It’s almost December.”

“Skeletons?” she says, turning her head toward me faster than any human being should be able to. “I only have clothes in my closet, _honey bun_. And most of them are in your closet, now.” She points at my fashion hole with a stab of her index finger, then turns back to her laptop. “Wow! I did not see that one coming.”

I fall back onto my mattress, light up a joint, and take a monster drag while Rachel puts in a pair of earphones and starts typing at light speed.

“We’re going to need to resupply,” I say to myself.

Rachel rips out her left earphone, letting it dangle halfway down the side of my chair.

“Do we have another date with Frank?” she asks.

“What, do you need some more coke from your boy toy?”

“Hell yes.”

“I was just kidding.”

I take my time finishing up my joint before joining Rachel at my desk where’s she typing up a paper on “The Merits of Offline Research.” I flip open my sketch pad and start working on something far more interesting: killer robots firing lasers and missiles at the football team as they flee in terror. I’m not going for authenticity here, just maximum destruction—it takes me all of twenty minutes to draw Drew North and his buddies in a tangled heap of limbs of helmets strewn across the rubble of the former swimming hall. I show it to Rachel.

“You should draw more pictures of me,” she says.

“That sounds like something you would say.” I flip the page over and start on her portrait. She looks tired even though we went to bed at the same time last night. “Running out of steam already?”

“Yeah,” she says. She stops typing. “I found another baggie of _coffee_ inside Frank’s package and didn’t tell you about it.”

“His package? I don’t think I want to know.”

“ _Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!_ ”

“I’m in the zone,” says Rachel. “Could you go down and grab me breakfast so I can keep writing your paper? I’m halfway done.”

I head downstairs and load up a plate with sausage, eggs, bacon, and toast. My stomach growls.

“I’ve been hearing all kinds of noises this morning,” says Mom.

She pokes me in the belly with one finger.

“What the hell? Rachel’s just plotting world domination. You don’t have to make a big deal out of it.”

When I arrive upstairs, my desk chair is empty. A toilet flushes down the hall. I put Rachel’s plate on the desk and head back down for my own.

“Your scholarship application has been rejected,” says Mom.

She greets me with a handful of opened letters. I snatch them from her.

“Awesome. Why are you opening my mail without asking me?”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind if I took a peek at a letter from a scholarship foundation that’s been sitting unopened since last Thursday.”

“It’s not a peek if you’re reading the entire thing.”

It’s some generic bullshit about how they appreciate my application and how much of an awesome person I must be and how they’re certain I’d be eligible for some other scholarship—just not theirs. They even attach a list of websites I can fuck off to.

“You’re too dumb for us, but maybe you’re not too dumb for _these_ dumpster-tier organizations,” I say.

“One rejection doesn’t mean the end of the world,” Mom says.

“I have the grades, the qualifications, the skills…they even said I aced their essay.”

“Life isn’t always fair, Chloe.”

“Isn’t that what we had inscribed on Dad’s grave?”

“ _Chloe._ That’s not what I’m talking about. You need to learn to accept rejection, move past it, and use it to make yourself a better person. That essay you said you wrote can be used in future scholarship applications so you don’t have to rewrite it from scratch. And the cover letter you submitted can be modified to match the expectations of the individual programs you’re applying to.”

“So I can take my failures and chop them up for spare parts. Thanks, Dr. Frankenstein. I feel like a fucking genius now.”

“Enough with the profanity. I want you and your mouth eating breakfast downstairs in silence. I’d like to pretend—for just a little while—that I have a daughter who doesn’t drop the F-bomb in every other sentence.”

“Mom…”

“Sit.”

I resign myself to shoveling greasy diner food into my mouth while reading through current events on my phone.

_Arcadia Bay’s boys in blue have been celebrating the holiday season by cracking down on the heroin epidemic that’s been plaguing the city for the past seven months. Yesterday, police conducted tandem raids of six different drug manufacturing and storage facilities, recovering several dozen kilograms of narcotics._

“Not even a family holiday can keep you off that thing,” says David. He clomps into the dining room with a dark blue garment bag draped over his arm. “And at the dinner table, no less. Is this what we can expect for Christmas next month?”

“Last time I checked, ‘Merry Christmas’ is spelled with an ‘e’, not with an ‘a’. You see what happened to Santa’s wife? The woman has an empire of elves, a fleet of magic reindeer, and the most efficient global delivery service the world has ever seen. Then, one day, she fucks up and marries some rosy-cheeked bowl full of jelly in a red suit and now all of the sudden they’re giving him credit for running the whole show. Historians can’t even be bothered to record her name beyond ‘Mrs.’”

“Have you been drinking?” he says.

“Jessica,” I say. “Her name is Jessica. And I have not yet begun to drink.”

I eat an entire sausage in two bites. I chug my orange juice.

_Investigators uncovered evidence that criminals were experimenting with all manner of commercially produced packaging such as cigarette cartons, beer cases, and wine bottles to conceal and convey their product to its destination. It was by tracing alcohol and tobacco shipment logs and cross-referencing them with trash pick-up schedules that authorities were able to eventually track the source of the prohibited substances._

“You sure did take your time,” says Mom. She kisses David—ugh, I did not just see that. “Does that mean we have something to celebrate?”

“I have a surprise for you,” David says. “Meet me in the garage.”

“Oh, my.”

I can’t chew or read fast enough.

_The head of this ring, Damon Merrick, was found dead in his jail cell earlier this year. With the remaining major players in custody or incarcerated, police are confident that they’ve cut the head off the snake that’s been strangling Arcadia Bay._

I dunk my plate in the sink water, race up the steps, and slip through my door to the sight of Rachel in her fucking birthday suit watching cat videos again, this time with a bottle of wine on the desk.

“Dude, your ribs make me want to barf.”

“I’m well within the normal weight range for my body type,” she says, “as attested by our family doctor on multiple occasions. Chardonnay?”

I take one of my shirts from the dresser and slide the collar onto her shoulders. I suppose I should be fortunate that she helps me out by putting her arms through the sleeves herself. I throw a blanket over her legs.

“I’m done with your paper, by the way. Woooooooo!”

“Why the fuck are you bouncing off the walls this morning? Last time you did _coffee_ we just chilled on a hillside.”

“I found a tutorial on the internet that shows you how to shoot up cocaine for greater effect. And holy shit, the effect is great!”

“Okay, fuck the internet in its fucking ass. Did it say how long it lasts?”

“I didn’t look. Wow! Here, kitty kitty!”

“Where did you get a syringe, anyways?”

“From the hospital. I took some just in case I ever needed them.”

“Just in case you ever needed to shoot up cocaine. Jesus fucking Christ. Pass me the wine.”

We watch cats chasing birds and running after squirrels along tree branches and attacking their own reflections in mirrors. Eventually, Rachel throws the blanket off her legs and puts a pair of my sweatpants on. She sits down with her arms crossed, shaking her head.

“I just wanted to feel really good a couple of times before it starts up again.” She looks in my direction. “I’m back in Honors next semester.”

“Shit.” I sink in my chair. “I should have seen this coming.”

“You’re right about my ribs. My dad has me on a diet. If I don’t do well enough for his liking, dinner is smaller. Sometimes it’s a protein bar in my room.”

“What the fuck? That’s why you clean out the refrigerator when you come over here. He said he was going to stop riding your ass so hard.”

“And he did, for a while. Then, like he always does, he sat in his chair and reflected, and he’s decided that in January things are going back to the way they’re supposed to be.”

“Dude, that is so not fucking cool. How can he get away with shit like that?”

“It’s not a big deal, Chloe.”

“Stockholm Syndrome much? You’re eating over here every day from now on. How do you even live with shit like this?”

“It’s important to keep a positive attitude, see the bright side of things.”

“What’s the bright side of a pile of shit?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Fertilizer?” She holds up the wine bottle. “I know how he is. That’s why I still have trouble believing he’d let me see my birth mother without something else driving it.” Her eyes meet mine. “Or someone else.”

“So fucking what? The hand that gives is the hand that takes away. You’re not thinking about heading off to Wichita, are you?”

“No. I can’t win that one.”

Rachel closes the window—finally—and puts on a pair of socks. She wanders around my room with her hands in her pockets. She leans over to examine the picture of me, Dad, and Max I have taped up to the side of my dresser, the one where we’re kids and he’s alive and smiling.

“Maybe you should see me every day, too,” she says.

She fishes in around the jacket she has hanging up in my closet. I take her picture in both hands: me and Rachel dancing our cares away on the beach, taken just before we hit the night market and…

I sit down on my mattress. Hi, Dad. I already see you every day. A break wouldn’t be a bad idea. Hey, Max. No response. Maybe I spooked her. I’m getting out of control—I can’t blame her. I need someone who’s here for me. Someone who understands me. Someone who fucking exists.

I take their picture down and replace it with Rachel’s. Max and Dad go into a desk drawer underneath CDs and mix tapes and old comics and that blue flip phone and blue ink drawings of superheroes whose powers went out of style three years ago. I slide the drawer shut. I hug Rachel—now she’s a skeleton, too.

“Thanks for being there for me,” I say.

“Always.”

There’s a soft knock on the door. Must be Mom. We hide the wine. I tuck my blue plastic tray into a corner. I open my door.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you, Chloe,” says David. “I’m going to make up for that.”

David unzips the top of his garment bag to reveal a dark blue button-up shirt with Blackwell’s crest over the right pocket and the word SECURITY in gold stitching above the left pocket.

“Starting next week, I’ll be looking out for you. They’ve got me on the graveyard shift. As long as you’re obeying curfew and we don’t have any flare-ups, you shouldn’t see me. Think of it this way: the less you see me, the safer you are.”

“I hope I’m really, really safe,” I say.

“I’ll do everything I can to make that happen.”


	21. Chapter 21

“Whoever came up with these team names is fired.”

Brooke and I are hunkered over a pair of laptops in our fully insulated perch twenty feet above the playing field. Everyone in the stands and out on the football field has taken an unscheduled mid-game timeout to look up into the air as snowflakes descend from the sky. Meanwhile, I’m burning up next to Rachel in our over-heated wooden box office on stilts.

“The Bay City Rollers?” I say. “Their logo is a pair of roller skates. And I still don’t understand why they call it football if you’re using your hands most of the time.”

“It refers to the way the teams send the ball to each other,” Brooke says. Her hands move across the keyboard so fast I can’t keep up. Green and purple blocks of text scroll up the lenses of her thick, black-rimmed glasses. “In the old days, teams used to actually kick the ball amongst themselves a lot more, but that practice has gone out of fashion in modern times.”

“Football doesn’t exactly look like a fashionable sport. Everyone is wearing ridiculous-looking pink socks.”

“It’s to support breast cancer research. Don’t be completely down on it.”

She swivels to me in her padded black office chair, showing off her pink hoodie bearing a blaster rifle-wielding Stormtrooper who stands triumphantly above the words _Talk Nerdy To Me_. Even her black ponytail is held in place with a pink hair tie.

“Besides, this is the perfect opportunity to score some extra credit for your art class. Put your thumb drive away. You can just send the artwork files to your teacher through the Vault. Or maybe you can have your _assistant_ do it for you.”

Rachel gives Brooke a cheeky smile and a thumbs up. Brooke rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Brooke,” I say. “Rachel’s leaving for Christmas vacation tomorrow. I’m not going to get to see her again until next year. I’ll owe you a favor.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says. “Try not to break anything while I’m in the restroom.”

I chug free soda and inhale complementary licorice while battle-armored gladiators smack each other around for the privilege of escorting a dirty pig’s hide into a chalk rectangle. The software Blackwell uses to program the scoreboard isn’t much more interesting—this laptop probably set them back a couple grand, but they’d need to finance a time machine to bring this green-on-black teletype-style display out of the Stone Age.

“Mind if I hit up some coffee?” Rachel says.

“You don’t need my permission for that,” I say.

I reconsider that statement when she inhales a line of white powder off the desk.

“Well, shit on a shingle,” I say as the booth door opens.

Brooke moves the announcer’s microphone away from my workstation. Rachel kisses me on the cheek.

“I think as long as you keep the profanity confined to your side of the operations booth, we should be okay. Principal Wells is very self-conscious when it comes to the university’s image.” Brooke passes me a typed note on university letterhead. “Here’s his public announcement for the half-time break—make sure you enter it exactly as it appears. Unfortunately, the IT budget doesn’t include updating the scoreboard programming software, so you’ll have to swap the Message and Notes fields.”

I’m typing in the most bland, generic, spiritless School Spirit message I’ve ever read when the door to the operations booth crashes open. Two dude-bros in red football jerseys and pink socks burst into the room.

“It’s going up there or we’re going on a date,” Dude One says. His wavy brown hair is so perfectly _coiffed_ that I wonder whether he’s actually even put on his football helmet today. It’s not really going to matter when I clock this asshole upside the head.

“Chloe,” says Brooke, “put the fire extinguisher down. Let me handle this.”

“Do you know who the fuck I am?” says Dude Two in a voice that sounds just like Nathan Prescott. He takes off his helmet and—lo, and behold: it’s Moneybags, Junior, in a set of over-sized pads that look ridiculous on his scrawny frame.

“Do you know who _I_ am?” says Dude One. “Kurt Bruce. The guy who got you onto the team in the first place. All that money and I _still_ had to make my case to the board on your behalf.”

“Nathan, I’m so sorry!”

Sam Myers walks into the booth right between the two of them. Six people in a room as big as a foyer officially makes this standing room only. Brooke scrunches up her face.

“Would you mind?” she says. “This is for IT staff only.”

“So why is she in here?” Dude One points at Rachel.

“Did you really say you’d go on a date with him?” says Nathan.

Sam fidgets with her fingers. “No, I don’t—I didn’t—I said I’d hang out with him some time, that’s all. I didn’t know he was asking me on a date.” She turns to Kurt. “I didn’t know you were asking me on a date. I’m sorry.”

“Chloe, set up the half-time display, please,” says Brooke. “I’m going to go get security.”

It’s at that exact moment, while two cavemen are fighting over a girl who’s too smart for either of them, that my highly intelligent girlfriend decides to do another line of coke right in front of Brooke Scott, possibly the only person at Blackwell Academy who sees and hears more than David Madsen.

“What the fuck?” says Brooke.

The room goes silent.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says to her. “This is my fault.”

“I don’t care about your drama,” says Brooke. “And neither will Mr. Madsen.”

I ball up my fists on top of the desk and press my lips together.

“Sam’s right,” I say. “You should tell Nathan how you feel. I know it sounds weird coming from me, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do. Like right now.”

“Oh my God,” says Sam. She looks like she’s about to hyperventilate.

“Hey, can you put this message on the scoreboard for coach at half-time?” Kurt says. He hands Brooke a note.

“There are two minutes left in the second quarter,” says Brooke. “Why did Coach Harrelson wait until now to make a message request?”

“I don’t know.”

Brooke unfolds the sheet of paper and scans it.

“There’s no way that Coach wrote this. Messages have to be requested on a special form. Coach Harrelson has done it many times before.” On the field, a mass of pads are smashing into each other. “You go tell Coach he knows the drill.”

“Well, Prescott,” says Kurt. “You’re out of luck.”

Sam stops fidgeting with her hands and lets them fall to her sides.

“I love you!” she shouts.

Nathan looks around.

“Who, me?” he says.

Another red uniform shows up on the steps to the booth’s entrance door.

“Bruce! What the fuck are you doing? It’s third and twenty. Special teams in the hole!”

“Shit.”

Kurt shoulders his way past Brooke and stomps down the steps with the other guy. Brooke slams the door behind them. Nathan and Sam gaze into each other’s eyes.

“You do?” says Nathan.

“I do,” says Sam.

“Wow.”

Sam wraps her arms around him. She looks like she’s going to fall off the face of the earth if she doesn’t hold on to him. Nathan looks like he doesn’t know what to do, probably because he doesn’t. With the same sort of fascination that you’d reserve for a slow-motion train wreck, I watch Nathan figure out the correct response to being hugged: you hug the other person back. Nathan and Sam stand there with their arms around one another, a couple that might have done this on another planet, in another lifetime, as members of an alien race unfamiliar with love and relationships.

“Chloe,” says Brooke.

“Sorry.”

Blocks of text in every field. Looks good to me. Save. Confirm. Done.

The door slams open again. It’s a guy in a white polo shirt wearing a headset.

“Seriously?” says Brooke.

“Prescott! What the hell are you doing? Coach wants you to punt. Get your ass out there!”

“Fuck!”

Nathan untangles himself from Sam’s arms, slides his helmet on, and follows Polo Guy down onto the field. Sam runs after them. Brooke slams the door shut again and locks it.

“That thing has a lock? Why didn’t you just use it?”

“Because normally people don’t barge in here to confess their feelings for football jocks with rocks for brains. Why would anyone ever want to be in a romantic relationship, anyways? Pining after someone who’s oblivious to your existence makes absolutely no sense.”

“There’s more to it than that,” I say.

“What, pining after someone who plays you for a fool?”

“Damn, Brooke. I had no idea your claws were so sharp.”

“And I had no idea that you were the school matchmaker.”

Ten minutes into half-time, people are filtering back into their bleacher seats and the football teams are back out on the sidelines, stretching and strutting and slamming their helmets together and slapping each other on the ass. My big, blocky “GO TEAM” animation flashes across the scoreboard, followed by a football dude with fire coming out of his ass. Brooke asked me to move the flames to his feet, which I did and then promptly undid while she was preoccupied. Must have been a software glitch, I told her.

“Ready for the message,” Brooke says.

_Please direct your attention to the scoreboard for a special message from the Principal of Blackwell Academy, Mr. Raymond Wells._

“That’s you.”

I hit the button.

“Oh, shit,” says Brooke. She takes off her glasses and palms her forehead.

Two thousand fans, two football teams, a pissed-off Bigfoots coach, Brooke Scott, Rachel Amber, and yours truly are greeted by the sight of the best Team Spirit message ever displayed on the scoreboard of Blackwell Academy’s football stadium:

**EAT A DICK, MOTHERBITCHES**

“Huh,” I say. “That looks awesome on a scoreboard.”

“I should have known,” says Brooke.

Rachel giggles. The door unlocks and opens.

“I should have known,” says David.

“Is there an echo in here?” I ask.

“What happened?” asks David.

I look at Brooke. Brooke scowls at Rachel. Rachel shrugs at Brooke.

“I legitimately don’t know how that got up there,” I say. “I typed in exactly what Brooke told me to.”

Brooke puts her glasses back on. She stands up and faces David.

“The scoreboard software is twenty years old because there’s no budget for it. It’s possible that my instructions or the message entry interface were unclear. An unauthorized football player came into the booth and requested a custom message which may have distracted Chloe.”

Brooke hands David a sheet of paper with chicken scratch on it. He looks it over, folds it up, and pockets it.

“I think it would be best if you were to run the booth from this point forward,” says David. “Unassisted.”

“Absolutely,” says Brooke.

Rose meets us at the bottom of the operations booth stairs. She’s wearing the same rosy-cheeked smile and the same crimson jacket she was when I first met her six months ago. Some people never change.

“We’re leaving early, it seems,” she says. “Uncle Francis and Aunt Elizabeth have just returned from Paris with some fabulous gifts and souvenirs. Your father can’t wait to catch up with them. I hope this isn’t too much for you, Chloe.”

“Sounds fun,” says Rachel. She gives me a playful wave. “I’ll send photos.”

She’s gone before I can even respond. David takes her place. He puffs out his chest. I can’t stand the sight of him in his uniform.

“Chloe, I just want you to know there’s only so much I can take before I’m forced to do something.”

Join the fucking club.


	22. Chapter 22

A banshee with a belly walks in the front door of the Two Whales at seven in the morning when any reasonable drop-out would still be a pile of blankets on a fan-blown mattress. Since today is Sunday and we’re celebrating the beginning of spring, I’ve decided to take advantage of the fact that everything on the menu is half-off except for pants which must be worn at all times. It also means there are plenty of dressed-up church families pre-churching in the booths all around me, leaving the truckers across the street to snooze off their hangovers in their sleepers while I deal with mine by stuffing my face with greasy food.

The banshee sits down across from me. She has Sam’s face.

“Hey, Sam. You look…different today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your hair is super frizzy. Normally you iron it flat and staple it to your scalp.”

This is already starting to feel like some surreal Stanley Kubrick film where you line up the shot so perfectly that you can draw a straight line through my forehead and Sam’s forehead all the way to the opposite end of the diner where it hits Stella Hill straight between her bookworm eyes.

“Hi, by the way,” Sam says. “Sorry. My mind is on other things.”

“Is that why you sat down to talk to me?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, I’m usually not awake before nine and you’re usually not in the Two Whales before ever. So yeah, just a little bit.”

“I haven’t even told anyone. I don’t know how you could know just by looking at me.”

“Eggs Benedict?”

I unroll a napkin bundle and slide a fork across the table. Sam makes a face like she’s going to vomit but she takes my plate and starts eating.

“That’s the slowest I’ve ever seen anyone chew,” I say.

I hang my elbow on the back of the booth seat and wait for Mom to float by again.

“You could have just told me you’d be eating for two today,” Mom says.

“Sorry,” says Sam. “I forgot to tell her. It’s really good. Thank you. I’m supposed to be gaining weight.”

Mom puts the back of her hand against Sam’s cheek. Must be a mom thing.

“I’ll be back,” she says.

I frown at Mom’s apron strings. My stomach and head compete to see which one can complain the loudest. A minute later, Mom returns with a plate of pancakes, hash browns, and muffins.

“It’s a busy morning. This is what we had ready.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I know it’s not for another two weeks,” Sam says, “but happy birthday. One more year until the big one.”

“Longest year of my life.”

Sam puts her fork down and blushes while she does some kind of breathing exercise.

“You all right, Sam?”

“I’m fine. I’m just pregnant.”

My hash browns go down the wrong way. I cough them up into a napkin. A sip of cooling coffee is a good enough chaser.

“How ‘just pregnant’ are you?”

“Ten weeks.”

“Ten _weeks_? What, did Nathan skydive into the missionary position under the bleachers after the game? Wasn’t there any romance between True Love and Fuck Yes?”

“It happened in his dorm room.”

“You know what? I’m sorry I asked.”

“That’s what I came here to talk to you about. Nathan’s a good man. This isn’t his fault.”

“How is impregnating you not his fault? And why me? I don’t exactly have experience with babies and the making of babies.”

“Exactly. You don’t have any preconceived notions about any of this. And Nathan says good things about you.”

“Are we talking about the same Nathan?”

“Yes,” says Sam. Her bony cheeks are ghost white. “He admires you because you don’t take shit from anyone and you stand up for yourself. Those are his words.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I’m pretty sure I remember white-knighting his ass in front of Drew North and he still thought I was an asshole.”

“He was angry because Drew wouldn’t give his photos back. That’s his life’s work. He wants to be a photographer more than anything. You can understand that, right?”

“If you’re looking for someone to sympathize with you about putting photography before everything and everyone else, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

“I’m sorry, Chloe. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Sam is doing some weird thing with her fingers. “You can’t tell anyone,” she whispers.

“It’s pretty hard to ignore at this point.”

“No, not that.” I can barely hear her. “Nathan’s father wants me to have an abortion.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t want us to be together.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Something about family values. I just can’t believe he’d ask me—ask us—to do that. My mom and dad said no. I said no. Nathan said there’s no way he’d ever agree to it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I came to you. I thought you could help me. You’ve always given me good advice.”

“Are you saying I kick-started this whole business…shit. Don’t cry, Sam.”

She doesn’t move when I hand her a napkin.

“Can’t you elope?”

“Elope?” says Sam. “How do you do that? Is that even possible?”

“Rachel and I have run away before. Maybe we should talk to her.”

“I…I don’t…” Sam looks down at her legs. “I don’t know. Nathan says Rachel does drugs.”

“He’s full of shit.”

Sam jerks her head up. Her lips part.

“I didn’t mean…those were his words, not mine. And he’s not full of shit.”

“I’ve seen Nathan out of his mind on campus plenty of times and I never told anyone I thought he was on drugs.”

“He doesn’t need drugs,” Sam says. “He needs someone who understands him.”

“So if someone who has a photo of herself and Nathan pinned to the wall of her bedroom wouldn’t understand him, what makes you think I would?”

“Rachel took a selfie with Nathan? Really?”

Sam picks up the napkin.

“Really. You didn’t know they hang out?”

“I…if that’s true, I wonder why he’s saying that about her.”

“Maybe they stopped hanging out,” I say. “Maybe he had a thing for her and he’s pissed that it didn’t work out.”

“That’s mean, Chloe.”

“The truth is ugly sometimes. And the ugly truth is that I have no idea how to help you.”

Sam folds her arms on the table and uses them as a pillow.

“I overheard my mom and dad talking last night,” she says to the windows. “My mom used the word ‘slut’. She never talks like that.”

“Your own mom? That’s pretty harsh.”

“I was supposed to attend a respectable university, graduate, find someone nice, then settle down and have a family. Now, all that has been erased. What do you do when you can’t even turn to your own mother for help?”

I slump down in my seat and rest my head against the hard plastic of the booth divider.

“When my dad died, I sat in my room and role-played with Barbie dolls. I’d tell Barbie all the shit I was thinking and feeling. She’d smile and give me a tiny, plastic shoulder to lean on. Mom never called me a slut, though. I think that would have been beyond Barbie’s comprehension…we could talk to Dana Ward. She has a new boyfriend every month. She must be an expert on relationships by now.”

“I hope she can help us. Me. Help me.”

I help Sam out of the booth when she falters. She stumbles into me. Mom helps her stand up.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m clumsy.”

“I’m taking her home,” I say.

“It’s good to see you looking out for your friends,” Mom says. “I’ll help you with the doors.”

I try to walk Sam out to the parking lot, but she won’t release her noodle arms. She buries her head in my chest.

“Is there something in the air that’s making people all sappy lately?” I ask. “And pregnant?”

“Valentine’s Day was two weeks ago,” Sam says into my shirt.

“I suppose a Valentine’s card that says _We’re Having a Baby_ leaves little room for doubt.”

“And it’s all thanks to you, Cupid.”

She starts walking to my truck.

“Fuck my life,” I mutter.

Sam’s legs dangle over a six pack of light beer with five empty bottles. The sole survivor is probably as warm as piss by now, but I need something to kill this headache. I open her door.

“What kind of advice did your Barbie dolls give you?” Sam asks.

“They didn’t. I just needed someone to talk to. Eventually, I got so sick of being invited to go shopping and hang out at the beach that I blew them up with firecrackers.”

I take a beer from the cardboard container.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

I twist the top off the bottle and guzzle the lukewarm amber fluid in the middle of the parking lot. I let out a resounding belch and put the bottle back with its cousins.

“Who said anything about feeling better?” I say as I get in. “Sometimes you just need to replace shitty feelings with other, less shitty feelings.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Why does everyone around here assume I’m the resident expert on making babies?” asks Dana.

For once, she actually looks like she’s pissed off. Her brownish red hair is undone, she’s not wearing any makeup, her usual low cut, chest-flattering shirt has been replaced by a neck-hugging sweater, and her tight jeans are a pair of baggy sweatpants. Bundled up like that, it’s strange that she can’t even be bothered to put socks on.

“I just thought maybe you could help,” says Sam. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not a slut,” says Dana.

“No! That’s not what I meant to say. I didn’t mean that.”

“I’m pretty sure she wasn’t calling you a slut,” I say.

Dana sits down on her bed and crosses her arms. Coming from her, that’s the equivalent of giving both of us the finger. The jumping, smiling cheerleaders on the wall posters above her are blissfully oblivious to the bullshit of reality.

“Why are you coming to me with this, then? What do I know that you don’t? You’re the one that’s pregnant.”

“Chloe told me…”

“So _you’re_ calling me a slut,” Dana says, glaring in my direction without really looking at me. That’s when I realize the posters are actually blown-up pictures of Dana.

“My bad,” I say. “I guess I am totally calling you a slut even though I came here hoping you could help Sam with some advice on how not to fuck up a relationship, because I am totally clueless when it comes to that.”

“It makes sense that you would be completely clueless about a relationship with someone like Rachel.” Dana shakes her head and sighs. “Then again, nobody would know what to do in a relationship with Rachel.” She pinches her nose between her eyes.

“Are you okay?” asks Sam.

“Do I look like I’m okay? I just got dumped by a guy who was fishing for a trophy fuck and landed the big one. Congratulations, guys, you found me out: Dana Ward is a confirmed slut. Happy now?”

“I’m the one who got pregnant,” says Sam, “so I guess that makes me a bigger slut.”

“You’re not a slut for having sex,” says Dana. “Shit happens. I doubt Nathan even bothered to ask you if you wanted him to use a condom.”

“No. He didn’t. We just…did it. It happens, like you said.”

“So, what exactly are you asking me? How not to get pregnant? Because I think that ship has already sailed.”

Sam sits down on Dana’s cushy blue couch. It’s comfy enough that it almost swallows her up, baby bump and all.

“Nathan’s father doesn’t want us to be together. He told Nathan it would be better if we moved away.”

I chime in. “You said—”

Sam shakes her head.

“I’ve lived in Oregon my entire life,” says Dana. “I’ve dated in Oregon my entire life. I don’t know what to tell you about long-distance relationships.”

Dana sits down next to Sam. I plant my ass on the floor with my boots out in front of me.

“Nathan can’t come with you is what you’re saying,” Dana says. “And you think I have some magic wand I can wave to make everything all right.”

“Sam came to me for advice,” I say. “I don’t think she has a whole lot of options. I couldn’t think of anybody else with relationship experience.”

“Okay. So you’re not here about the baby thing, exactly.”

Sam’s hair is touching her legs. Dana puts one hand on her shoulder.

“Hey. Don’t hang your head like that. You can figure out how to make this work.”

“I hope so,” says Sam. “I just can’t bear the thought of being alone. Would you ever run away with one of your boyfriends if you really loved him?”

Dana puts her hands in her lap.

“I don’t know. If he got me pregnant, I guess that would settle things on my end, at least, but I go to great lengths to make sure that doesn’t happen. You’re being really hard on yourself. This isn’t your burden to bear. Nathan should be moving heaven and earth to be with you if he loves you as much as you love him.”

“It sounds like Nathan’s father won’t let him,” I say.

Dana rolls her eyes so hard so that only the whites of her eyeballs are visible beneath her fluttering eyelids.

“There’s no advice in the world I can give you to help you with that,” she says.

“Couldn’t someone talk to him and make him change his mind?” says Sam.

“Sure, right after they convince an oceanographer that water isn’t wet.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t meant to be.” Sam’s hair falls into her lap again.

“Shit,” says Dana. “How do you handle it, Chloe?”

“Handle what?”

“Being apart from Rachel so much. Last semester you two were practically joined at the head. Now, I hardly ever see you together.”

“Rachel is back in the Honors program and I haven’t seen the inside of a classroom since…some time last week I think it was. I do a lot of drawing and listening to music and smoking. I tried reading a bunch of art philosophy and self-help crap about connecting to your inner spirit and making peace with bunny rabbits and beavers and Einstein-level scientific discoveries about how drawing is just putting lines on paper. You could give me all the words in the world, but they don’t mean shit because Rachel’s dad gets what he wants no matter what and he’ll do anything to make sure that happens.”

“Like when he let those rumors circulate,” says Dana.

“What rumors?” I say.

Sam and Dana look at each other.

“There are rumors that you got Rachel hooked on drugs,” says Dana.

“What the fuck? Who started that?”

“It wasn’t Nathan,” says Sam. “It wasn’t. I swear.”

“People have started rumors about Sam, too,” says Dana. “Rumors that have no basis in reality.”

“They said I’m using Nathan for his money,” Sam says. “Or that Nathan is rebelling against his father. I don’t know why it’s so hard for people to believe that we just love each other.”

“What would you do if you got pregnant, Chloe?” Dana asks.

“Me?”

“You.”

“I, uh…I don’t think I’ll ever get pregnant.”

“Neither did Sam. And it happened. What if you were pregnant and Rachel’s dad wanted to use the situation to make your relationship disappear? What if he was going to get his way no matter what? What if people were spreading lies about you? What would you do?”

“Shit. I mean, he couldn’t just tell me to move. I could take a break from school until the baby was born, but he’d have to let us stay together. If he wanted me to move away, he’d have to give me a boatload of cash. Rachel would join me once she graduated and she’d be able to support us financially after that.”

“How do you know?” says Sam. “Would she really defy her dad to be with you? Where would she get the money?”

“I know we’d be together again, eventually. She’d never leave me hanging. Besides, once she’s an adult, they can’t control her or her money.”

“But is it her money?” says Sam. “Nathan doesn’t carry any credit cards or even cash because his dad pays for everything. We went out to eat at the Two Whales once and your mom gave us our meal for free because I thought he was going to pay and he forgot that you had to pay.”

I laugh. “That sounds like Nathan.”

“Chloe,” says Dana.

“Sorry. If it were me, I guess I would get the hell out of Arcadia Bay and hope for the best. Nothing good comes from staying here. Nobody should grow up here if they don’t have to.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Dana. “It’s not all bad.”

“I am speaking for myself. And I didn’t say it was all bad, I just said the good shit must be saving itself for people who aren’t me. And Sam, apparently.”

“I have to think about this,” says Sam. She stands up.

“Leaving already?” says Dana. “We barely even talked.”

“I think maybe I just needed a shoulder to lean on more than anything.”

Dana smiles. “Text me if you need anything.”

“Same,” I say. “I’ll actually text back even if I don’t know how to help.”

I flash Sam a peace sign. She waves half-heartedly. I take another look at Dana’s posters.

“That’s you up on the wall,” I say.

“Yeah. Those were taken at junior varsity football games. Everyone was trying so hard to make the team.”

“Did you make it? The team?”

“I sure did. I was two votes shy of head cheerleader my freshman year. I’m hoping to take Holly’s place after she graduates this year.”

“So, is the difference between _head_ cheerleader and regular cheerleader what I think it is?”

A pillow comes flying at my head.

“Maybe you don’t see the upside to living here because your mind is always down in the gutter,” Dana says.

“Maybe. But there are a lot of gutters here. I don’t even feel like I did anything for Sam.”

“You did enough. Sometimes, all you can do is be there for someone while you watch their world go to shit.”


	24. Chapter 24

“I’m here with Rachel’s medications,” I say.

Security Guy looks me up and down, checks my driver’s license.

“Spread ‘em.”

“What?”

“I’m just messing with you. Go on in.”

I walk into an M. C. Escher maze of office cubicles separated by dull, plastic partitions the color of Wells’s suit. The window blinds are drawn shut, the carpet smells like Samuel’s shampooed it a thousand times, and the ceiling is made up of those removable tiles that rebellious students and drunk principals have used to hide their whiskey bottles for as long as grownup babies have relearned how to piss themselves.

“Sorry,” says Rachel. “My nose is going crazy again.”

I lean over to kiss her on the lips and get her forehead instead. I pull up a chair.

“I don’t know if I’d call that crazy,” I say. “You only have about a thousand tissues on the table and in the wastebasket and up your nose.” I take off my beanie and set it on the table. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“Would a quickie cheer you up?”

Every worry I have in the world is put on hold while my brain works overtime to process the meaning and implications of that statement. The all clear sounds when Rachel takes a white bag of sugar out of her shirt pocket and plops it on the table.

“I’m good,” I say. “What does that stuff do for you, anyways?”

“Helps me sail away,” she says.

I take a sheet of paper from Rachel’s stack, fold it into an airplane, and send it flying over a row of shiny but fake wooden table surfaces. It makes it over three tables before taking a nose dive.

“What was that?” says Rachel.

“You and me. Leaving.”

“Well, I’ll have you know that was your Health assignment. It’s worth ten points. It won’t kill you if you don’t turn it in, but you should. I would also suggest—very politely, mind you—that you start attending class again. I’m having a heck of a time getting you passing grades in classes your teachers have never seen you in.”

“I’ll tell you what: you attend my life, I’ll attend my classes.”

Two lines appear on the table. Rachel rolls up a dollar bill and makes them disappear. She flutters her eyelids at the ceiling.

“You’re right, Rachel. I should really be doubling down in my efforts.”

Rachel takes a drink from her water bottle and runs her tongue across her teeth.

“Is that stuff expensive?” I ask.

“Not any more expensive than that Hawaiian _pakalolo_ I got for you last month. Now, please bring your assignment back here.”

I weave my way between tables and cubicles and pick up my airplane. I present her with the unfolded sheet of paper.

“In case you run out of straws,” I say. “Where do you get this stuff from, anyways?”

“I know it looks less than attractive, but this is just a temporary arrangement to help me get things done faster. You might even be able to sleep over tonight if I whip through this stuff and report back to Dad.”

I rub the back of my neck with my hand.

“Why are self-appointed father figures such a pain in the ass?” I say.

“Has David been hassling you again?”

“Yeah. He keeps bringing up that shit with the scoreboard. I tell him to go look at Wells’s ‘inconclusive’ file but it’s like the words don’t even register with his brain.”

Rachel purrs like a cat. She sits up straight and winks at me.

“Little Miss Outlaw, taking credit for all my shit,” she says in a sing-song. She shakes her head and frowns. “Really?”

Two more lines appear on the table and disappear almost as quickly. My pulse quickens. I grit my teeth.

“How much of that shit do you have to do?” I say.

“Relax, Chloe. I can handle it. I take micro-doses while doing homework and that’s it. Like I said, it’s just a temporary thing while I work through this shitty, shitty semester. You of all people should understand.”

“Because I smoke weed every morning? That’s just to make me feel normal. If it were legal, a doctor would totally give me a prescription for it.”

“I don’t need a lecture on morality. Soda and coffee don’t cut it. I’ve tried. You know beer puts me to sleep. I need this to deal with all of the emotional and psychological stress my dad puts me through. I feel like one of those child stars who has to perform on stage and earn the praise of her handlers.”

“Those child stars die of overdoses.”

“Maybe you need a cigarette.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I’m always here for you.”

“But you might not be.”

Rachel counts to herself as she breathes: one, two, three.

“Nathan calls me five times a day asking me why you told Sam to leave him. Victoria found out about the anti-anxiety meds my dad is making me take and told the Blackwell administration it’s because you got me hooked on drugs. Dad is responding to the accusations by drinking more. Mom is responding to his drinking by consulting divorce lawyers.”

“So you’re bowing down to bullshit rumors? How many fucking drugs do you have to be on to do shit like that?”

“You know what, Chloe? I’m glad I have my dad around to look out for me. At least someone does.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What is what supposed to mean?”

“You never talk shit like this. Is that what that shit does to you? Turns you into a raging bitch?”

“Fuck you, Chloe! What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem is that you do too much coke one time and you wake up to your funeral!”

I pick up my chair and send it flying at Rachel’s head. She ducks. When she returns the favor, I catch the chair with my face. Rachel puts one hand up, but stops herself. A fierce rapping on the door turns our heads.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Fuck you, David!” Rachel says.

The security mechanism sounds and the door comes flying open. Rachel and I stand rooted in place. Security Guy looks at Rachel, then at me.

“What happened to your face?” he says.

I stare at Rachel. Rachel stares right back at me.

“Do you want to tell him about the chair you threw at my face or should I?” I say.

“Do I need to call the police?” asks Security Guy.

“Call whoever you want,” Rachel says to him. “If this is the direction things are headed, neither you nor I will be here tomorrow.”

“Tell us how you really feel, Victoria,” I say.

“Maybe you should drink more tea,” she says.

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on in here,” Security Guy says, “but I could hear you all the way down the hall. Classes are in session. This is way too much noise.” He waves his hand in front of him to illustrate the phrase _way too much noise_.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Rachel. “My _friend_ was just leaving.”

My knees buckle. I brace myself against the table.

“Probably forever,” I say.

I will my limbs to work. I brush up against Security Guy on my way out.

“Hey,” he says. “None of that.”

“Then move out of the fucking way, dude.”

On my way out of the building, I decide to kick-start my wobbling legs by drop-kicking the front doors open. My ambition earns me a broken nose and a trip to the nurse’s office, where the nurse won’t shut up about how much blood is coming out of my nose. I tell her if you think this is bad, you should go check out the Barbie doll in the tutoring center.


	25. Chapter 25

A raven flies in through the open, starlit window and lands on my chest. He digs razor-sharp claws into my breasts, unfurling a pair of massive wings so wide that I can’t see past them. They send gale-force gusts of wind at me that pin me down and threaten to burst my inflated lungs. Try as I might to resist, the only reward I get for my efforts is complete and utter exhaustion. When I throw my head back against my pillow, the raven folds up his monstrous wings, cocks his head to one side, and peers at me with a solitary, whiskey-colored eye.

“Did you do this, Miss Price?” says Principal Wells’s voice.

“No,” I say, catching my breath. “I swear, I had nothing to do with it.”

“But those are your cigarettes, aren’t they, Miss Price?”

The raven points its beak at a spot just beyond my left shoulder where an open pack of cigarettes lies on the floor. A single lit cigarette sends off an orange flame that snakes its way in fucked up circles across the room and then back out of sight at the foot of my mattress where Rachel is standing.

“They told me I’m an angel on loan from heaven,” she says. “I have to go back now. Will you come with me, Chloe? Come spend the night with me in heaven?”

“ _You have been expelled, Miss Price,_ ” booms the raven. “You are hereby expelled from heaven for the rest of your eternal life. Your sentence…” The raven starts growing, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. He gets to be so big that the crown of his glossy black head smashes a bowl-shaped dent into the ceiling. “Your sentence is to _be alone_ for all eternity.”

The raven puts his beak right up against my nose. His breath smells of rum and vomit.

“May Maxine Caulfield have mercy on your soul.”

He pins my neck in place with a giant triplet of talons and fire hose pukes a stream of Polaroid photographs into my face. They bounce off harmlessly. I put my hands against my cheeks—plastic.

“Sweet dreams,” says the raven.

He raises the points of his parted beak so high up in the air and so far back that it looks like the base of his skull is touching his spine. I’m still screaming when he slams his beak-knives straight into my eyeballs.

My white sleeveless shirt is completely soaked with sweat. I whip it off over my head and take off my bra—the clasp is a knife in my spine. I spend a minute just catching my breath, looking around in the pitch black darkness for any sign of movement.

Nothing. No fire, no ravens, no Rachel.

I turn on my glowy bear lamp and grab my cigarettes from their blue plastic tray. I inhale the first one down to the filter in two puffs, exhaling clouds of smoke that put the output of a volcanic eruption to shame. I open the window and take a seat on the slanted roof above the garage. The night breeze feels good against my bare skin.

I call up Rachel, not really expecting her to answer since we haven’t talked in three weeks. To my surprise, she picks up on the second ring.

“What’s up?” she says. Same old sugary voice.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“See? That was easy. You were just freaking out.”

“Yeah, I know. I feel like an ass.”

“You should. You were a complete ass.”

“Wow, thanks. And thanks for picking up.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

I’m halfway into my third cigarette, telling Rachel all about my fucked up dream when the garage door hums into action. I take my phone from my ear: twenty to ten.

“I’m just going to sit here and watch step-douche pull out of his man cave. Think he’ll spot me?”

“Maybe. Put me on speaker phone in case he wants to have a chat.”

Instead of a car, David strolls out onto the pavement adjusting his hat over his lawn-mower buzz cut. Naturally, when he triggers the motion sensors and the front lights turn on, he immediately suspects that someone or something other than his own dumb ass must have done it. He takes the flashlight from his hip and waves it across the front yard. Eventually, he finds me.

“Yo,” I say.

David immediately puts his arm over his eyes to shield himself from the sight of my body in its natural state.

“Put a shirt on, would you?”

He turns away and looks down the lamplit street.

“I got all sweaty and needed some air,” I say. “I was having nightmares.”

“I hear you. I have them myself sometimes. Usually related to combat patrols. Your father?”

“What do you care?”

“None of my business, I suppose. You know, a sniper would be able to pinpoint your position using the glow of your cigarette as a beacon.”

“This is a residential neighborhood. And the only person I know of who would do shit like that is gone.”

“He’s learned to talk and move his head. Still wish I could have talked some sense into him.”

“I’m trying to forget my nightmares. Aren’t your shifts still rotating the way your head was just now?”

“I’m covering for a co-worker tonight. His wife just had a baby. I’ll be pulling a one-and-a-half into mid-morning, just like your mother’s been doing at the diner.”

I take a drag off my cigarette.

“I see you around campus more often than I should,” he says. “What I mean to say is: you’re not in class when I see you. Your progress report came in on Friday. You couldn’t be bothered to open it, so your mother did it for you. She was not happy with what she saw.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know you don’t. That’s the problem. I talked to Mr. Wells about your status. You know what he told me?”

“ _Miss Price, you have been expelled._ ”

“That’s where we’re headed.”

I flick my cigarette filter onto the asphalt below. David bends over and picks up the butt, pinching it between his fingers. I light up another one.

“I’ve talked with your mother,” he says. “This is as good a time as any to have this talk.”

“By which you mean the worst possible time.”

David pulls his sleeve back and looks at his watch.

“As of right now, you’re on probation. No drugs, no alcohol, no unauthorized stimulants, no staying out past curfew. You’ll be working in the diner this summer, forty hours a week, all pay directly deposited into your mother’s bank account. Your mother will give you two cigarettes per break period. You smoke them immediately or forfeit them. Outside of that, no nicotine use.”

“Work? Yeah, right. And even if I did, how would you expect me to bust my ass all day with no fucking buzz?”

“You can drink as much coffee as you want as long as it doesn’t interfere with your duties.”

“Fuck coffee. You know I’m not a fucking soldier, right?”

“The alternative will give you a soldier’s focus and discipline: summer school in Corvallis. Military-style regimentation, student housing, activities scheduled from sunup to sundown, Monday through Sunday. Exercise will clear your lungs, strengthen your circulation, and improve your physical and mental health. Most importantly, it will eliminate the need for nicotine.”

“I’m talking to Mom. There’s no way she’s cool with this.”

“Your mother signed off on it as soon as she saw your progress report. The writing is on the wall. She expects me to call her with your answer before she goes to sleep tonight. The cigarettes and the lighter or a summer road trip.”

“You’re serious.”

He looks up at me without shielding his eyes.

“I know you’re smart, Chloe. Too smart to steal cigarettes and end up at the station. Too smart to run away with Rachel again and put yourself on Mr. Amber’s radar. I talk with him on a daily basis. He’s made it clear to me that if you two get up to anything, there will be consequences.”

Rachel clears her throat on the other end. I imagine her on stage, a dispossessed noblewoman delivering a soliloquy up the rear end of a jilted king who took her land when she wouldn’t marry him.

“For all this talk about telling the truth and wanting me to trust you,” I say, “it doesn’t matter what I say or do. You barge on ahead down whatever path you’ve already laid out for yourself. Remember when you said you were going to take me at my word? Yeah, neither do I. That lasted all of, what, a month before you were ransacking my room again? One month after you tried to get me to bond with you over a picture of your dead army buddy. Maybe I should show you a picture of Eliot and commiserate over how if only you had been there to talk some sense into him I’d be laid up in the hospital right now, high as balls and deep-throating a root beer popsicle just waiting for Eliot to stroll into my room with a little Hawt Dawg Man balloon and a You Are Now My Girlfriend get-well card and the latest issue of _Stalker Monthly_ for him to pass the time with when I fall into my nightly coma.”

Rachel applauds. I toss the cigarettes and the lighter to the pavement.

“Why don’t you just tell Wells you found evidence that I sabotaged the scoreboard?” I say. “Blackwell could pin it on an outcast and you’d get yourself that promotion you’ve been chasing.”

“Because I’m a man of integrity. I follow orders even when my commanding officer doesn’t maintain the same standards that I do. Just because one person doesn’t do their job the way they’re supposed to doesn’t mean everyone else is off the hook. Integrity is doing the right thing when nobody’s looking.”

“What do you call doing the wrong thing while everyone’s looking and nobody does anything about it?”

David adjusts the brim of his hat and looks straight at me.

“What I just did for you, I’ll be doing for Blackwell, even if it costs me my job.”

“I hope you’re successful.”

“I’ll be there for you,” says Rachel.

“So that’s what the grandstanding was about,” says David. “You had an audience. For what it’s worth, I hope you’re successful as well. That entails not getting yourself fired from the diner.”

“If I planned on getting fired from the diner, I’d set fire to the diner.”

“Don’t joke about things like that,” he says. “Your mother deserves better.”

David’s man-chariot grumbles a low farting noise that increases in flatulence as he cruises off down the street.

You’re damn right she deserves better.


	26. Chapter 26

A bellowing roar sounds. Celestial bodies crowd aside to accommodate an enormous luminescent blue dragon bearing a set of equally giant nostrils flanked on either side by a bushy black thicket of whiskers that flutter in the breeze like untended pubic hair. The dragon swoops down low with her hind legs held at an awkward angle and buzzes the crowd, covering them in a fine brown mist. Dad and I hold our arms up to the sky to cover our faces, but everyone else in the audience and on the stage pays this giant fucking dragon absolutely no attention even as she’s showering them in a shit show of ejaculations.

Almost right on the ass crack of the giant blue dragon comes a somewhat smaller red dragon with scales that glisten and eyes that shine like diamonds. Instead of a roar, this one lets out a siren’s song that melts my heart into butter. The melody courses through my veins and up my neck into my head, where it chills with my brain and finally lets me relax, then slides its way down into my pants and starts working its magic. Oh, man, this is not the place for this. Or is it?

I’m about to climax when the red dragon rears its head back, then throws it forward, unleashing a jet of violent flames. It swivels its head back and forth, covering everything and everyone in brightly burning yellow-orange-red fire. Nobody reacts like a normal person would, which in my mind involves screaming and running around while flailing your arms. Instead, there’s laughter and polite conversation. Rachel turns to Principal Wells and other members of Blackwell’s administration and does a polite, on-fire curtsy. They stand up and give her a round of applause.

“Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘flamed amazement,’ doesn’t it?” says Dad.

“Yeah,” I say, looking at the one person on stage who isn’t standing up: Sean Prescott. He sits there, staring at Rachel like a misbehaving puppy. Nathan stands behind him, scowling at me. “Hell is empty, and...how does that line go?”

The red dragon circles back around and flaps its wings at me, sending waves of ecstasy through my body. _All the devils are here_ , comes a whisper in my ear. I think I might need to excuse myself from the commencement ceremony.

“As your 2011 sophomore homecoming queen…”

Rachel stands up on stage in a blue graduation gown and black mortarboard cap that aren’t on fire. I scan the faces in the crowd—not a dead father among them.

“Chloe Price,” says Victoria. She struts up to me in a blood-red blouse and skirt that might as well still have the price tags hanging off them. “Imagine seeing you here. And right after you got expelled. From what I hear, you were hardly ever in class, and when you were, you were either cursing like a sailor or dozing off. I bet you’d even sleep through your own graduation.”

“Oh, look,” I say, “it’s the Queen of V. You’re not even close to graduating. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same thing of you. Rumor has it that you and Rachel had a falling out after trawling the gutter lost its appeal.”

“For her or for me?”

“Oh, my. You have a sense of humor. I suppose you’d have to if you wanted to be able to keep her attention for as long as you did.”

“And,” says Rachel into the microphone up on stage, “to my one and only, Chloe Price, without whom I wouldn’t be standing up here before you: thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being there for me when I needed you the most.”

“What’s up?” I say to Victoria.

Victoria’s thick, black eyeliner strokes arch downward toward her flared nostrils.

“Your derive your worth in life entirely from what others think of you. Do let me know how that feels when it comes full circle and bites you in the ass.”

Her knee-length pencil skirt swishes rapidly against her legs as her stiletto heels stab the grass all the way to the swimming hall.

“Not bad, Chloe,” says Hayden. He’s ditched his black tuxedo stage ensemble for a preppy cream sweater, khaki slacks, and a pair of brown velvety running shoes. “You coming back next year?”

“Nah, I have a chronic illness. I’m allergic to stupid shit.”

“Good one. You should seriously consider it, though, even if you’re not a student. Next year is going to be a blast, if you know what I mean.”

He holds an invisible cigarette to his lips and takes an imaginary drag.

“I thought about it. Too many bad memories and too much effort to make new ones.”

Hayden flashes me a peace sign, then does some bro-fist handshake with Nathan and his buddies. To my surprise, Nathan walks right up to me. His eyes shine like glazed donuts and he’s got an unnatural-looking smile on his face. If I don’t walk away now, I’m probably going to end up snapping his neck right in front of everyone, including daddy dearest who has been invited up on stage to talk about how awesome he is for giving tons of money to Blackwell and Blackwell’s programs and Wells’s twelve-step program which involves drinking before, during, and after his four daily meals. You do the math.

“Hey, Chloe.”

“Hey, Nathan. I need to—”

“Sam is leaving,” he says. “She told me it was for the best.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. She said you talked to her.”

“Well, sort of. She asked me for advice and I didn’t know what to tell her, so I asked around campus.”

“That’s what I heard. I heard you’re the person that people go to for advice—good people, I mean.”

“I was under the impression all the good people had left Arcadia Bay.”

“Not all of them, but the rest might pack up and move if they take your advice. My Dad said sending Sam to New Hampshire was a great idea. Safest place in the country. But he wouldn’t give me an answer when I talked to him about joining her out there. Any ideas?”

“Graduate.”

“Obviously. You gonna take your own advice?”

“Probably. Not here, though.”

“Yeah, well, unlike you, I don’t have a choice. Besides, I’m gonna be all over the photography program next year. My problem is: what do I do in the meantime?”

“Send Sam boatloads of cash?”

Nathan scratches the back of his head and looks down at the pavement.

“People always think it’s my money, but it’s not. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Not having money?”

“I mean with Rachel. Same deal with her. We hang out sometimes—kind of a support group for people who get bagged on because they’re misunderstood.”

“People who end up being the subject of rumors.”

“Yeah, exactly. What do you think I should do?”

I light up a cigarette.

“If you can’t send her money, at least keep in contact. That’s super important. You don’t want her to think you’re ghosting her.”

“Why would I ever do that? Sam is the most important person in the world to me.”

“That’s awesome. So whatever fucked up shit is going on in your life, you have to be there for her however you can. If your dad gets on your case about it, you have to stand your ground.”

Nathan runs his hand through his hair.

“That might be tough. Dad calls all the shots.”

“Not all of them,” I say. “Sam is at what, six months now? Too late for an abortion.”

Nathan slaps his hand over my mouth.

“You need to shut the fuck up about that. Who told you that?”

My cigarette burns down to my knuckles. He tries to shove me backwards, but I’m already kissing the wooden billboard post with my ass. I push his hand away.

“Did you hear about what happened to the last guy who flipped out on me?”

Nathan adjusts the shoulders of my t-shirt with the grace of an alien who’s unaccustomed with earthly garments.

“Seriously, you cannot tell anybody about that. Where did you hear it?”

I finish my cigarette and flick the butt over his shoulder onto the sidewalk.

“I’ll give you a thousand bucks,” he says.

“You just said you were a little bitch with no wallet.”

“My dad’s up there right now. He always hooks me up when it comes to shit like this.”

“I don’t need the money. I already have a sugar mama.”

“You also don’t need enemies, Price.” His upper lip starts twitching.

“My ‘enemies’ have a short half-life, _Prescott_.” I use the air quotes.

“I’m going to say this as nicely as I can.” Nathan puts his hands up against the billboard on either side of me. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

“And I’m going to say _this_ as nicely as _I_ can.” I slam my hand into his crotch. His mouth opens. “Fuck.” Squeeze. “You.” Squeeze. His knees buckle.

“Nathan, it’s time for photos.”

The devil himself in a three-piece suit looms over us. With the grace of a ballerina on a sugar high, Rachel pirouettes herself between me and Nathan.

“Hi, Nathan,” she says.

“Is everything all right here, Nathan?” says _Mister_ Prescott. “I wasn’t informed of difficulties with other students.”

“It’s okay, Dad. We were just joking around.”

Nathan looks at his polished black shoes.

“Like father, like son,” says Rachel.

“I need your pearly whites, now,” says Nathan’s dad.

“Okay,” says Nathan. “So, are we cool?”

He extends a hand toward me, his eyes still on his feet. I hesitate, then reach out. I wipe my sweaty palm on the back of my jeans.

“Thanks for being so cool about this,” he says.

“That’s me.” I kiss the air. “Miss Ice Queen.”

Up on stage, Wells appears at the podium.

“For outstanding philanthropic contributions to the Blackwell community…”

I have no idea what the rest of the speech is because Rachel’s lips have abducted mine and are escorting them somewhere into the upper reaches of Earth’s atmosphere on the way to outer space before we both come free-falling down to the planet’s surface. I gasp for breath when she finally releases me.

“Do you enjoy killing people?” she asks.

“What planet are you from?”

“I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going out with someone who was a killer in something other than the looks department.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been playing that game on my laptop a lot lately. You really get into it.”

“Oh, that. I already finished it and uninstalled it. It got kinda boring after I figured out all the interesting ways to assassinate people.”

“Normally, when I think of assassination, I picture someone sneaking up on their target and taking them down somewhere out of sight. You just ran through the all the levels killing everyone you saw.”

“Yep. _Boring._ ”

“Well, I’m leaving my laptop at your house so you won’t be bored while I’m gone.”

“Gone? How long are you going to be gone for?”

“This summer.”

“I know, but which part? June? July? August?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me this is a really shitty joke.”

“I wish it were. We’re going on a family vacation. And no, you can’t come. It was the first thing I asked. I talked to Dad about it for an hour.”

“Shit.”

“We have a little nature retreat on a couple acres out by King’s Canyon. We don’t use phones, computers, tablets, anything. It’s the way we’ve always done our summer sabbaticals. Dad says time away from the world is my reward for keeping my nose to the grindstone.”

“Some reward. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Find some more games on my laptop.”

“It’s worthless to me if I can’t even use it to talk to you.”

“We’ll stop at a public phone once a week on Saturday. Twenty minutes.”

“I work on Saturdays, thanks to David. You’ll have to call me at the diner.”

“Deal.” She puts her arms around me. “When I get back, we’ll go to the loudest concert we can find and get a sick pair of tats.”

“That sounds a little better, I guess. Minus the part where you’re gone for three months.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.” She takes me in close, really fucking close, so close that nobody can see what she’s doing, and slides her fingers down the front of my jeans. My body hums. “There is one place I’ve never been, though. I thought maybe you could be the one to take me.”

I look into her eyes—the emeralds inside are lifeless, somehow. Where did that sparkle go?

“Not like this,” I say. “It’s pointless if there’s no meaning behind it.”

“Did I just hear Chloe Price say ‘no’ to adventure?”

“I said ‘no’ to cheap action.”

Her hands are off my abdomen, my waist. She takes a step back and crosses her arms.

“When?”

“When we’re free.”

“We _are_ free.”

Rachel grabs me by the wrist and runs me into Samuel’s janitor closet on the far end of the dormitories, far away from prying eyes. She locks us in, unbuttons my jeans, unzips them, and slides her hand down my underwear right on top of my skin. She starts to rub me in just the right goddamn spot and I feel like my legs keep spreading further and further apart until I’ve taken the entirety of the cosmos into my womb. Then, with one massive push, I give birth to galaxies, annihilate entire societies with the gravity of the celestial bodies thrust into being through my hips.

Exhausted, I look around the dim room. Rachel flips on the light. Damp jeans ring my ankles. She helps me with my pants.

“Feels like I pissed myself,” I say.

“Hit and run,” says Rachel.

“What?”

She pushes the door open, peeks her head out, then hits the switch for the sprinklers. Screaming students and surprised parents clear the grass in record time. Rachel grabs my wrist and runs us right through one of the high-powered sprinkler heads like we’re two kids playing in my uncle’s front yard on a hot summer day in our swimsuits. By the time we get back to her mom in the courtyard, we’re both dripping wet.

“Sorry, Mom,” says Rachel. “We were saying our goodbyes when the sprinklers came on out of nowhere.”

“That certainly did come as a surprise,” says Rose. “Are you two all finished?”

“We sure are,” Rachel says.

She blows me a kiss and disappears into the night. I do the same.


	27. Chapter 27

The inside of my head is a jail cell. I haunt the same places, ignore the same faces, put myself through the same paces every single day in this shithole diner. None of these people are Rachel, so all of them are prison wardens, hunched over plates piled high with apple pancakes and sourdough toast, drinking from white cups filled with black tar coffee that tastes like the devil himself squatted over the coffee pot and took a fiery shit. Every time I go on break, I blast music from the fancy new phone Rachel bought me directly into my ears while I replay our first date in my head over and over and over. I was lying down on the rafters so I could feel Firewalk’s bass throbbing into my spine and the guitars shredding chords straight into my skull through the rotting wooden floorboards, but that wasn’t good enough for Rachel. When she dragged me down to the ground floor, it felt like the earth opened up beneath me and devoured me whole in a cacophonous symphony of life, death, and rebirth that pulsed its way into my body through my feet, up into my kidneys and ribcage and heart and lungs and out through my throat. Rachel showed me that music is a full-body experience. Anything less than that is just masturbation.

In the alley behind the diner next a pile of fresh trash bags and a dumpster that hasn’t been washed in forever stands a sharp-looking young dude with a camera, photographing the brick wall for some reason. Since I’m not a fan of effort, I walk all the way around the building instead of climbing over the waist-height chain link fence.

“Hey, Evan,” I say to the back of his fedora. “Taking the money shot?”

Evan jumps up in place. It’s almost comical the way he does it.

“Chloe. In the future could you please do me the kindness of signaling your presence?”

“I did. Just like I alerted tons of people to the presence of the Philosophy Club at Blackwell.”

“So you were the one who vandalized the ‘Philosophy Is Life’ sign. That was approved as such by the Organizations Committee, you know.”

“Yeah, but what is anyone supposed to do with that? ‘Philosophy is 2 Life As Masturbation Is 2 Sex’ is a lot more practical. Speaking of which, did Rachel ask you to put up pictures of her face all over town? She’s just gone for the summer, dude. It’s not like she’s missing.”

Evan sighs as he adjusts his thick-rimmed black glasses.

“Before she departed for the summer, she handed out head shots from her latest session and asked me to do something interesting with them.”

“So why are you back here swimming in trash?”

“I’m photographing a photograph in recursive homage to M. C. Escher, whose unique and paradoxical works explored the themes of symmetry, infinity, and reflection. His mathematically irreverent landscapes invite us to take a mental journey into the intoxicating domain of the images that exist within our minds.”

“So you’re using my girlfriend’s image as artistic wank material.”

“That’s a rather crude way of describing of a transformative process that highlights the subject’s best qualities and elevates them to the realm of the divine. Have you ever heard of sacred geometry?”

“Is that the ten-dollar phrase you use when you ask a model to take off her clothes and pose?”

“Very well, Chloe. I’ll find another setting for my subject.”

“Why don’t you find another subject?”

He stands with one hand in mid-air, staring at the photograph that isn’t there any more.

“I suppose I could try,” he says, “but I would venture that the vast majority of them would simply serve as poor substitutes. Goodbye, Chloe.”

Evan walks off toward the other side of the diner. What the hell does he need to photograph around here, anyways? Probably some shit in black and white that he calls _Rustic Americana_ and hangs up on one of those huge display boards in the courtyard of Blackwell. I head inside the diner and sit myself down at a booth. When I come down from my thought cloud, I look over my empty plate with the fork still on it. I gulp down the last of my cold coffee. Mom walks up to my table and puts her hands on her hips.

“I’m impressed. I don’t remember the last time Chloe Price didn’t leave bits of everything on her plate.”

“No, I’m fine. I wasn’t thinking about Rachel. Someone else. Thanks for the omelet.”

Mom takes my earphones out.

“I didn’t say anything about Rachel. And I gave you waffles, not an omelet. Are you feeling all right?”

“It’s cool. Your waffles are my favorite, anyways.”

Mom shakes her head and walks back into the kitchen. I head into the bathroom with Rachel’s head shot. Straight into the garbage—no, wait. What’s this written on the back?

_Evan,_

_The rarest of souls are those like us who see transcendental beauty in ordinary people and places. You’re unlike most others—the language of your poetry is the unembellished camera shutter. It’ll be someone like you with your uncompromising honesty who hurls me from these little streets into the realm of the divine._

_Rachel_

“The realm of the divine? Watch me take myself to heaven.”

I take off my shoes, socks, jeans, and underwear and place them next to the sink. Rachel’s picture rests against the mirror behind the running faucet. This time, I remember to lock the door.

It takes me ten minutes to relax, and even longer to relax completely. I ride ocean waves of sensation until all at once the tide crests and floods the beach with rushing water. I leave fingerprints on the mirror. Rachel’s eyes never leave mine. They continue to follow me as I remove my apron, my long-sleeved shirt, and my bra. My tattoo keeps getting better every time I look at it: a red thread swirls around the thorny vines and green leaves that encircle a skull and a rose. Blue butterflies flit above it all.

But I’m not going to do it there—that would be no better than what Evan was doing with Rachel’s photograph out in the fucking alley. I remove a fruit peeling knife from my apron’s pocket and put my hand up against my fingerprints on the mirror so Rachel can watch what I’m doing in exquisite detail. I remember asking Frank’s buddy while he was inking me what some of the most painful places were.

“The ribs,” said Frank without even hesitating. “You have to be a crazy motherfucker to sit through that.”

I place the blade against my skin and open it up. Hurts like a bitch, which is the goddamn point. I cut a small heart right on top of my ribs, the kind that cheerleaders and bubblegum blondes use to dot their Is in love letters to football players and homecoming kings who can’t write their own goddamn names without looking it up on their phones. I watch my handiwork bleed until I’m satisfied, then cover it with a wad of toilet paper and a bandage.

I walk into the kitchen wearing my work uniform and Rachel’s face on my chest. Mom nods her approval as she cleans out the grease trap.

“Even in black and white, she’s beautiful. She certainly does know how to charm.”

“Did.”

I rip up Rachel’s photo and toss it in the trash.

“Are you and Rachel still friends?” asks Mom.

“We were never _friends_ ,” I say.

“You’re not upset because she met someone, are you?”

“If it’s someone like David he can have her.”

“I’m sorry, Chloe. Something must really be on your mind if you’re coming back here to talk to me. Or did you finally decide you wanted to work at the diner when you’re done with school?”

“So I can shovel up all that white shit that congeals into a vomit-inducing mess in a metal container? No, thanks. I’d rather—”

“Clean a lion between his legs?” says Mom. “This is about as unsightly as it gets. The alternative is to head off to college.”

Mom wears a pair of black, neoprene gloves that run all the way up to her elbows. And they’re covered, almost all the way up to the elbows, in a film of layered white stuff that makes me want to go finish a degree in anything other than restaurant management. She almost has to lean into the small, square opening to get the very last handful of the stuff out. She turns toward me when she does, probably so she doesn’t get sick into the opening and then have to clean that up, too. I make a face.

“Is the prospect of going to college that bad?” says Mom.

“If the girls at Blackwell are any indication of things to come, then yes.”

“Blackwell is just one tiny little corner of the world. A change of scenery might give you a fresh perspective on life. Go apply to college in Bay City. Figure out what you want to do, then move on to somewhere bigger like Sacramento or Seattle.”

“God, Mom. Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

“Max, Max, Max. Who fucking cares about Max?”

“Nobody said anything about Max.”

I put my forehead in my palm.

“God fucking damn it. I hate this shitty ass fucking town.”

“Then leave,” says Mom. “Or would you rather spend all day moping about, waiting for Rachel to come back with the key to the city?”

“Harsh.”

“That’s how you’re treating yourself right now. One friend doesn’t hold the key to all your happiness. The world didn’t end when Max’s parents moved her away. And as far as I know, it’s still turning.”

“I need another cigarette.”

I stand out on the roadside sidewalk and watch cars drive by. A driver that looks like Frank has me on the phone with the actual Frank before I even know I’ve dialed his number.

“Price,” says Frank. “Thought you dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Still here, unfortunately.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“A while back I tripped out a lot harder than usual. I was just wondering if you started adding extra firepower after you got out.”

“It’s the same shit from here to infinity. Nothing changes. If you wet the bed, it’s not my fucking problem. Now, do you actually need something or am I wasting my time talking to you?”

A dog barks in the background on the other end.

“Easy, boy. Easy. Here, eat this.”

“Do you know where Sera went after she left Oregon?”

“That’s above my pay grade, Price.”

I fiddle with the strings of my white diner apron. Still has spilled coffee and maple syrup on it.

“Was it the same place Damon went, or somewhere else?”

A long pause on the other end.

“All I can tell you is that I heard she went out to the Midwest, found Jesus, and started doing the celebrity redemption tour.”

I flick black ashes into the street.

“What does that mean?”

“She gets paid to do photo shoots in business suits, high-waisted jeans and turtlenecks, those white dresses she likes to wear. She reminds me of those TV show kids who grew up, got high, got sober, then went up on stage and talked about how awesome sobriety is while they were ripped out of their fucking minds.”

“So she’s alive.”

“You could have answered your own fucking question by looking her up on the internet. Her publicity shots are called ‘publicity shots’ for a reason.”

“That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Frank.”

“Hey, Price.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you.”

He hangs up.


	28. Chapter 28

I sit down at one of the Learning Center’s computers and start poking around the home screen. No shit, full internet access. This might work out after all. I go straight to the summer music festival footage. They have a live, stage view video of the Dorothy Twister concert. Is that my blue beanie in the middle of the mosh pit? Fuck yes. The only problem with this otherwise completely awesome and completely “authorized” event (fuck you, David) is that I attended it alone. I put the headphones on, but no sound comes out. Apparently they use one of those ancient headphone jacks. Where the hell is the actual computer so I can plug these things in?

Maybe I was wrong about this shit working out. I am totally not down for the pillow party over on the couches—one guy and five girls babbling like they’re in a waiting room television talk show. Wish I had a remote so I could mute them. Ah, shit.

“Name’s Tommy.”

This kid looks like he could be a ghost in a Saturday morning cartoon. He’s pale enough that I feel like putting on a pair of sunglasses to deal with the glare of the overhead lights off his forehead. He’s wearing a black sweater vest over his popped-collar white dress shirt, black slacks, and a matching pair of polished black shoes so spotless he could have bought them this morning on the way to school. When he smiles, I need another pair of sunglasses over the original pair to deal with the metallic shine of his braces. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pressure washes them every morning after brushing his teeth.

“Did you walk here straight out of a coming of age novel?” I ask. “Holy shit.”

Tommy sits down at the computer next to me without an invitation and just stares at me instead of actually, you know, using the computer for its intended purpose.

“That’s funny,” Tommy says. “Yeah, they keep it locked up until class begins. You gotta wait for them to tell you it’s cool before you start listening to stuff.”

“Do you have a key? You know to pick the lock?”

“Nah, it’s better for everyone if you don’t try any of that. Trust me, I know from personal experience.”

I throw the headphones down on table.

“Hey, those things are expensive. You know they got all this from the Prescott Foundation? Huge donation. That’s where all this tech comes from.”

 _Tech._ Prescott. I put the fingers of my right hand into the shape of a gun, point them at the side of my head, crook my thumb, and tilt my head to the left with a jerk. Tommy shows me his braces.

“I forgot to ask you your name,” he says.

“Chloe.”

“Chloe what?”

“Chloe Price.”

“Oh, like The Chloe Price Is Right.”

“Yep. I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Can you guess my last name?”

“Uh, shit? As in, I don’t give one?

“That’s funny,” he says. “Most people say Hilfiger, but it’s actually Lauren. I live up in Manhattan Beach.”

“Sucks to be you.”

“You’re a riot, Chloe. Want to know what my uncle’s name was?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Seymour Butts,” he says. “Technically, it was Seymour H. Butts.”

“Technically.”

“What do you think the H stands for?”

“Hella?”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Just something I picked up.”

“Huh. Well, it stands for Harry.”

“Did he work under the bleachers at a football stadium?”

“No. He worked on submarines in the Navy.”

I nod my head and stare at the monitor. Tommy starts up with some fucked up snorting laugh that makes me regret ever having said anything to him.

“Seymour Harry Butts. I get it now. I think we’re going to get along great.”

He walks back over to the girls sitting on the couches. They look way too happy to see him.

“Hey, buddy!” one of them says.

Fantastic. Well, I guess this kid’s in the Friend Zone whether I want him to be or not. Class starts up and instead of doing that shit where you introduce yourselves to one another and talk about all the stuff you’re going to do with your life that everyone forgets five minutes later, we start working on some life skills assignment on the computer. To my surprise, I work straight through the first designated break period. It helps that they made a game out of teaching me more than I ever wanted to know about applying for jobs. I also beat the shit out of the test at the end of it.

“Hey, Tommy,” I say. “I got hired as the Head Paper Pusher.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Not bad.”

“I’ll let you know if they have any openings.”

I decide to celebrate by heading out to the parking lot and smoking one of the cigarettes I pilfered from my rations when Mom “wasn’t looking”—it also happens to be my last one, because unless Rachel reappears or Mom has a change of heart, I have no cash flow. Sure as shit, Tommy What’s-his-nuts follows me out here like my cat Bongo used to do at home. His food dish would be full and he’d still come into the kitchen to see if he could score some leftovers.

“Hey, Chloe,” Tommy says. “You’re supposed to let me win at that stuff.”

“Win at what, life skills? I was just doing the assignment, dude. I didn’t know there would be a fucking leaderboard at the end of it.”

I take a drag off my cigarette and exhale it into the pavement.

“Nice,” he says. He chews his gum like his jaws will freeze shut if he’s not chomping at a million miles a minute. “Can you do smoke rings?”

“Now that you ask…” I take another drag and hold it in for a second while I look him in the eyes. I release a stream of smoke straight up into the air. “Nope.”

“So, yeah. Everyone lets me win. It kind of makes me look bad if I don’t do well. My parents have high expectations for me and I’m not gonna get to go to the university I want to if I don’t get really good grades here.”

“I thought this little section of Arcadia High was the place where great expectations go to die.”

“Spooky choice of words. I don’t know. We learn to make the best of it. At least I do.”

I finish off my cigarette, throw it down onto the sidewalk, and smash it with the heel of my boot.

“Let me help you with that,” says Tommy.

He picks it up for me and walks it over to a grey upright plastic penis standing next to the red brick wall of the building’s exterior. The cigarette butt disappears into a little hole on the side of it.

“There’s other things I can help you with. When I get the high score, the girls and I like to celebrate.”

“What, are you running a fucking harem? In your wet dreams, kid.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

Tommy looks at me with a weird smile when reaches into his pocket. This little shit and his _elaborately coiffed_ hair look like they should be sporting a varsity letter jacket and maybe an expensive camera. I wonder if Tommy gets these girls pregnant and his dad ships them off to parts unknown. I wonder if Tommy is an egotistical fucking asshole.

“You play ball,” he says, “I can hook you up.”

Before he can even unfold his man-purse, I grab Tommy by the buttons of his nice, white dress shirt with its freshly popped collar and shove him up against the wall. His billfold falls to the ground. It’s so stuffed that it lands edge-up and stays there.

“I will knock you the fuck out,” I say.

Tommy puts his hands up. His face looks calm. The chattering around us has stopped.

“Hey, Chloe,” Tommy says. “There’s no need for that. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just—”

“I’m sick and fucking tired of people who think they can swing their wallets and their dicks around to get whatever they want. I don’t give a fuck about your stupid fucking scores, your stupid fucking benefits, or your stupid fucking name, you stupid fuck. You ever try to fuck with me again and you’ll be wearing those braces _outside_ your mouth.”

I release his shirt. He slumps down onto his ass with his back against the brick wall. The other kids stare at Tommy, but just keep talking like nothing at all ever happened. Nobody even looks at me. I shove my hands into my pockets while I wait for the authority figures to show up and sentence me to an eternity in detention.

Nothing happens.

“Why isn’t anyone busting me right now?”

“Mostly ‘cause we don’t fight,” says Tommy. “Everyone gets along. You ever been in jail?”

“Nope.”

He stands up. One of his harem dolls comes over and adjusts his collar without so much as a glance in my direction.

“I didn’t think so,” he says. “I have plenty of relatives who went to jail. They tell me that once you’re there, they got you. You’re all in the same club playing by the same rules hoping that one day, you’ll get out of there. Fighting just adds time to your sentence. Same thing here.”

“I’m just tired of people thinking they can flash cash instead of being decent fucking human beings.”

“Yeah, my bad,” says Tommy. “I guess I was so used to assuming everyone knew.”

“Knew what?”

“I got cancer. The kind you don’t recover from. Fifty-fifty I live long enough to graduate from college.”

“For real?”

“That’s as for real as it gets.”

“Is that why all the girls are so nice to you?”

“Maybe. A lot of them come from busted backgrounds, too.”

“That’s why you hook them up with party favors? Like, coke? Weed?”

Tommy laughs.

“Holy hell, Chloe. Nah, just sugar bombs.” He picks up his wallet and shows me the red and green wrapped candies stuffed inside it. “Only drugs I deal in are the ones I take for cancer, and that stuff just makes the pain go away for a while.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. People think I smoke to get fucked up, but all it does is give me the ability to get out fucking bed and take showers.”

“It doesn’t make you feel better at all?”

I stare at my boots.

“Does that even mean anything when nothing ever changes?” I look up at the sky. Clouds float by so slowly it looks like they’re standing still. “My girlfriend was gone all summer and now she doesn’t talk to me any more. My dad died three years ago. Mom replaced him with the biggest asshole in the world. I’ve been dealing with it by cutting myself.”

“That’s some heavy stuff,” Tommy says. “I have friends who have been in some of those places, too. The girls in this class, a lot of them have relatives in rehab centers and foster homes. I used to see the single moms in Manhattan Beach at the bus station on Fridays. They’d celebrate another week of not shooting up by loading up a convoy full of baby strollers and heading off to the shopping mall or the theater or to some place that didn’t remind them of all the garbage they’d put themselves through. We all know how it goes. Any of that make sense to you?”

“Fucking up? Absolutely.”

“Sometimes they graduate permanently when they overdose. That’s how my aunt Louise went.”

“Ouch.”

“You ever think about your own death? I mean, in an off-hand kind of way.”

“Off-hand? Not exactly. Usually I just think about my dad.”

“You ever talk to him?”

“In my dreams. But I don’t like those conversations.”

“Why not?”

“They end.”

“They don’t have to. I keep a journal. I write to myself, my dead grandpa, my aunt Louise, even to myself after I’ve passed on. ‘Hey Tommy, what’s heaven like?’ ‘Oh, it’s pretty awesome. I have tons of girlfriends and we party every day.’ Helps me keep my stuff together, you know?”

“Yeah. I’m not really much for writing, though. What would I even say?”

“You’re writing to dead people. Shakespeare’s dead, too. What’s he gonna care?”

“True.” I straighten his already straightened collar. “Sorry about that shit.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I put my arm around his shoulders. He puts his arm around my waist.

“All right, kid,” I say. “Show me how to let you get the high score.”


	29. Chapter 29

Hey Dad,

I still miss you every day. I’m missing you extra hard today. It took me an hour to figure out what I wanted to say. As soon as I started writing it, I realized it took so long because I was trying to forget that I keep seeing you. I should be happy to see you, right? I’m not. Your face and your smile and your checkered shirt are like thorns against my skin. You look like you’re supposed to be alive. It makes me want to never wake up again. At least that way I’d get to see you and have it be real. I mean, if I keep seeing you, that means you’re still out there somewhere. When I go, I want them to bury my ashes next to yours so I can join you in whatever alternate universe you’re in. It must be better than this place. Any place is better than this place. I’ve been sentenced to a lifetime of grief for a crime I didn’t even know I committed.

I met a kid at the Learning Center who said he had cancer. I heard a rumor from the teachers there that Tommy is making it all up just to gain sympathy. If that’s true, none of the girls he hangs out with seem to notice or care. I mean, if everyone lies—except you and maybe Max—and everybody’s lying, then who’s right? But I figured it out: Tommy deals with it by lying to himself about it. The teachers pick up on that and run with it. Easier to pretend a dragon doesn’t exist.

Well, Dad, I have bad news: I have cancer, too, and her name is Rachel.

We met at a Firewalk concert last year and up until recently she was the best thing that ever happened to me. I say “recently” because she’s been away all summer on a family vacation, whatever that means. She only calls me once a week and we get to talk for ten minutes, sometimes less. She said it would be twenty, but I remember her mom—her birth mom—saying something about learning to not trust a word anyone says. I’d tell you all about how awesome Rachel is, how she understands me better than anyone else ever has, all the crazy stuff we’ve been through, but I don’t want to. I’m trying really hard not to think about her right now because I start feeling the same kind of pain I do whenever I think about you, which is every single day. It’s the kind of loneliness that follows you wherever you go, even when you’re surrounded by people.

I cut myself, right on my ribs under my arm where it hurts enough to make me feel a different kind of pain but in a place where nobody at the diner can see it. I read up on it after I did it. Most people do it on their arms and cover them up with long sleeves. Apparently, I can’t even do that right. I stopped eating breakfast and lunch in the middle of June. I almost made it to Rachel’s birthday before Mom noticed my cheekbones and forced me to start eating during my shifts before she’d give me my cigarettes. Even gave me a half hour paid break to do it, not that I see any of the money. I thought about maybe doing that thing where you eat and make yourself throw up, but that sounded way too gross.

If you were here, I’d tell you all about it and then you’d talk to me like you always do and I wouldn’t have to do any of it. But you’re not here. Neither is Rachel. Three days into the new school year and I’m all alone at this sectioned off little place in Arcadia High where I don’t get into fights with other kids because they’ve all been through the same kind of stuff that I have to the point that they just don’t care any more. What I don’t understand is why Rachel would leave me hanging like that. I mean, you’re dead and you at least make the effort. I must not really mean that much to her.

I’d try to forget about her, but the image of her smiling face is the first thing I see when I wake up every day. And that’s what kills me.

Love, Chloe


	30. Chapter 30

“Three weeks and I haven’t heard from Rachel,” I say to Steph as we walk to the Blackwell dorms. “Is it normal for people to not even try to contact you after they’ve been gone all summer?”

“It happens,” says Steph. A gust of autumn wind hits us. The _Game Master’s Guide Book_ under her arm almost flies open. “Not that it should, but it happens. She must have her reasons.”

“Right, just like David has his ‘reasons’ for being a douche-monster. He busted me for smoking a cigarette out in the parking lot. Actually wrote me a goddamn ticket. He says he’s on a mission to ‘clean up’ Blackwell. And apparently it starts with his own step-daughter.”

“Good luck with that. The only person around here who makes lasting contributions in that department is Samuel. Hi, Samuel.”

“Good morning, Stephanie Gingrich.”

Samuel’s wearing a heavy, dark blue jumpsuit and a blue knit cap pulled down to the tops of a pair of rectangular Coke bottle glasses that make him look like he should be refueling airplanes or air traffic controlling medical helicopters instead of wasting his time on a place like this.

And because it’s Samuel, that’s the end of the conversation.

Steph, on the other hand, got promoted to being Mr. Keaton’s personal assistant in the Drama Lab, which means she gets to have a say in which plays are performed, gets to give her opinion on casting auditions, and also gets to help clean up the rehearsal post-mortem every single day.

“So, your reward for being awesome is you get to do more work?” I ask Steph. “See, this is exactly why I’m not a fan of effort.”

“When you’re doing something you love, it’s not work at all. I love everything about being a stage manager, so getting to learn about the operational aspects that I normally don’t have a hand in is a form of cross-training. I actually look forward to it.”

“Wait, what? You actually look forward to going to work? How the hell does that happen?”

“You just have to find something you love and do everything you can to make your dreams become reality—”

“Dude, I do not want my dreams turning into reality.”

Steph puts her hand on my shoulder.

“You just have to ignore all the bullshit. Tabletop is where I bring my dreams to life. And I’ve seen you sitting over by the totem with your sketch pad out. What do you draw?”

“Designs for tattoos. Like this one.”

I slide the shoulder of my jacket down and show her my arm tat. Steph’s lips and eyebrows approve.

“That is seriously impressive. You can definitely tell when a work of art is made by someone who loved what they were doing and took the time to be the best that they could be at it. But it also takes time to figure out what you really love and how much you love it.”

“I guess. The waiting kills me, though.”

A football bounces off the steps as we walk up them. We were trying very hard not to notice the two bros playing drunk catch out on the front lawn because who doesn’t do shots at ten o’clock in the morning on a school day? You’d have to be fully loaded to toss a dead pig around in this wind, anyways. I underhand the ball back in their general direction as Steph unlocks the front doors to the dormitories. Plural, because boys and girls live on alternating floors in the same building with utterly predictable results.

“Yo, Price!” yells one of the dude-bros. “Is is true that Rachel gives BJs for party favors?”

“What the fuck?”

Steph takes my hand, pulls me inside, and locks the door.

“What the fuck was that?” I ask.

“Rachel gets around. When you’re as popular as she is, you’re bound to attract attention sooner or later.”

“What do you mean, ‘she gets around’?”

“Butterflies go wherever they please, and no matter where they land, people are drawn to their grace and beauty.”

“So you’re saying that even butterflies have haters.”

“Watch where you’re putting that thing!” comes a girl’s voice from the bathroom.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” says a guy. “This is my first time!”

“Seriously?” I say.

“Shit, someone’s outside!”

Hysterical, non-stop laughter spills out of the bathroom along with Rachel who’s trying to rub her nose off her face with the back of her hand. She freezes when she sees me. My stomach starts doing somersaults.

“Why are you two holding hands?” she says.

“I just remembered,” says Steph. “I totally forgot to write my English paper. Maybe some other time, Chloe.”

“Hey, Rachel,” says the bathroom, “this isn’t working. Should I just roll up a hundred?”

“Welcome back, Rachel,” I say. “Looks like you didn’t miss me as much as you missed Nathan. What are you guys doing in the bathroom?”

We stare at each other in silence. Rachel rubs her lips together.

“I was showing him how to do it,” Rachel says.

“Awesome. I have something to show him, too.”

“Chloe, wait.”

I push past her as gently as I can, then blow open the door as un-gently as I can. Nathan is hunched over a sink.

“How do you do this?” he says. “Do you have to cover up one—”

“Hey, asshole.”

“Chloe? Are you talking to me?”

“No, I’m talking to the fucking wall. Remember when you tried to get all tough with me at commencement last spring?”

“What? I thought we were cool.”

“You think hooking up with my girlfriend in the bathroom is cool?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Chloe,” says Rachel. “I was going to call you, I swear. I just have a lot of things going on right now.”

“Like this,” I say. “This is what you have going on right now.”

“Do you actually think Nathan and I would ever do anything like that?”

“How should I know? People can change a lot in three months. I called up Frank and he said Sera’s out in the Midwest high as a kite. Like mother, like daughter?”

“Rachel, can you call off your pitbull?” says Nathan. “I didn’t do anything. Leave me the fuck alone.” He turns back to the sink.

“He’s right, Chloe,” says Rachel. “We can talk about this later.”

“When you’re high? Fuck that shit.”

“We’re doing this to erase bad memories,” says Nathan.

“Just let us have this,” says Rachel. “Please.”

_Bitch._

“What did you just call me?” I say. I grab Nathan by the shoulder and spin him to face me. “Say that to my fucking face.”

Rachel grabs my arms by the elbows. I pull them away and almost hit Nathan in the face.

“Take that back,” I say.

Rachel appears between me and Nathan. She leans her bony body into mine, trying to push me away. I drop one leg back and plant my foot the same way I see David do it sometimes in the driveway during his morning calisthenics. Rachel responds by pushing the sleeves of my jacket up to my elbows and digging her nails into—

“Chloe,” she says. “What did you do?”

I launch forward off my back foot straight at Nathan only to be met with searing pain under both of my arms. Rachel squeezes my mid-section so hard that the cuts on my ribs open up again. Blood trickles down my sides and into my jeans. Nathan still stands in front of the sink.

“That shit’s expensive,” he says. “Rachel, talk to her.”

“Maybe you should let her have it,” she says. “If that’s what she wants.”

Nathan retreats to the bathroom’s entrance door. Rachel releases me. I straighten my shirt and push my jacket sleeves down. I put my hands on the wall on both sides of the mirror and stare down at the white powder on the sink that has these two holed up in a room where people take shits.

“Chloe,” says Rachel. “Are you going to hurt us? Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.”

I push myself off the wall. I ball up the fist of my left hand. I can’t stand the sight of my own fucking face in the mirror, so I spider-web it. I drop my unclenched fist to my side and stalk off into one of the shower stalls where the blood between my fingers carries my life down the drain, one drop at a time. Nathan walks over, runs a rolled up dollar bill along the lip of the sink in a rectangular U-shape, and sprints out the door.

“I don’t want to get my ass kicked,” comes a cry from the hallway.

“Neither do I,” says Rachel.

I turn on the shower. Cold water stings my cut-up skin.

“I would never do that to you,” I say.

“Are you sure? You almost did just now. After everything you’ve done for me, it’s hard to believe you’d flip the script like that.”

“I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“That’s what people who hurt you say before they hurt you.”

“I just…don’t understand why you would ignore me like that.”

“And I don’t understand why you’re acting like that guy who followed us to Long Beach.”

“Shit…”

“Yeah. Shit. You should see the nurse.”

“I’d rather bleed out.”

I turn off the shower and shake water from my hand. I’m still bleeding pretty good.

“You don’t need to do this to yourself.”

“You’re right. I don’t. You’re doing it for me.”

Rachel walks up to me, takes me in her arms, puts her nose right up to mine. It’s been so fucking long that my lips reach out to hers of their own doing.

She turns my cheek away with her hand.

“We’ll try that again after you’ve seen the nurse,” she says. “You’re not the only one with problems. I needed to get my shit together before I was ready to call you. Life at home is not fun at all. But after today, you won’t have to be alone any more. I promise.”

“I hope that means something.”

Somewhere up in the sky, a tabletop nerd in a thrift store shirt surrounded by cans of empty soda pushes figurines of me and Rachel around on the playing field of life, narrating our shitty adventures before feeding us to the fucking dragons.


	31. Chapter 31

“Well, look who decided to show up,” says Victoria. “And you even brought your pet. Did you forget your leash?”

Rachel told me not to wear my beanie, but that advice turned out to be about as useful as her invitation to attend this Halloween _soirée_ in a show of unity: Rachel and I are back together and everything’s fine and I’m not being blinded by the silver party glitter covering Victoria’s glossy face. The future heir to the Chase estate looks like she had the right idea when it came to makeup, but then she ordered cocktails for herself and her stylist and things went to shit from there. Even with the bass pounding out of the academy’s state of the art sound system, Victoria’s pounded so many strawberry-flavored shots—I can smell them from here—that nobody has to strain to hear her over the music.

“Victoria, you’re looking as radiant as ever,” Rachel says. “Iridescent, you might say. Your performance as Ophelia was quite well received.”

Victoria preens herself in front of us—in front of everybody. She must be further along than I thought. Then again, the frenetic, psychedelic light display illuminating the walls of the auditorium makes Victoria look pretty tame by comparison.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m happy to be so well acquainted with people who recognize true talent.” She casts a glance in my direction. “What was your favorite part of the performance?”

“The part where you exited stage left.”

“Your portrayal of the lady in the lake was particularly on point,” Rachel says. “Mr. Keaton was right to cast you in the leading role. You were born for the stage.”

Victoria puts one hand across the white buttons of her pink cashmere sweater.

“As your former understudy, I’ll take that as high praise. And I _do_ love high praise.”

She downs the rest of her drink and hands the blue plastic cup to a young woman behind her who looks confused at first, then walks off toward one of the trash cans. I wave my hand in front of my nose.

“What about you?” Victoria says to Rachel. “Any plans on returning to Drama Lab to continue your legacy? Spring, maybe? I hope it’s not spring. I hear Mr. Keaton has plans to actually do a modern play for once.”

“Really? He almost always focuses exclusively on Shakespeare. His obsession with everything Elizabethan and Jacobean is all-consuming.”

“So true. This time, he’s doing an adaptation of a movie about a bunch of real estate salesmen tripping all over each others’ dicks to sell houses to people who don’t want to buy them. The entire cast is men. Isn’t that crazy? No room for us girls.”

“So who’s going to be in the leading role, then? Is he adapting the main part for you?”

“No, he’s not. It’s an old boys club. Hayden is in, for sure. My boy Nathan is a lock for the superstar salesman who comes in from the higher-ups and tells all the lesser salesmen to get their shit together or they’re fired. He’s perfect for the role. So what are you dressed as, Chloe?”

“Someone who gives a shit?”

Victoria puts on a fake smile.

“I’m going to need a lot more of this,” she says as she grabs another blue plastic cup. “It was nice talking to you, Rachel. If you’ll excuse me. Enjoy the party!”

She walks off and disappears behind rows of folded up bleachers. Rachel finds me a beer and locates a plastic cup for herself. We chill over by the refreshments stand, watching people dance and talk and make out. Every now and then someone comes up to Rachel and starts a conversation about a topic so boring it could be its own course at Blackwell. By the time Rachel puts one hand on my hip and her lips on my lips, I’ve needed a refill for five minutes. I’m just about to forget where I am when she squeezes my shoulders.

“I need to go talk to someone,” she says. “There’s a punch bowl on the other end of the refreshments table.”

“You mean where Dana is making out with that dude from the swim team?”

“Diving team. But, yeah. I’ll be right back.”

I don’t feel like punching tonight—as long as I don’t see Nathan, that is—so I ask Rachel’s boyfriends in the back room to beer me. The head bro looks me over, pops the top off a bottle of the good stuff, and hands it to me. I head back to my post by the refreshments table just in time to see Dana and her friend with benefits crawling through the white folds of cloth that overhang the other end of the table where the punch bowl is.

The ice and ladle start shaking around inside the bowl. I shake my head and take a long drink. Damn, this stuff is strong.

My vision returns. The music fades in. The left side of my face aches. My neck muscles are sore. I put my hand up to my cheek—stings like a motherfucker. I stumble around, asking if anyone’s seen Rachel. Nobody will tell me anything—they just keep asking what happened to my face. I keep looking for Rachel.

In the back of the auditorium, from behind a door next to the folded up bleachers, comes a laugh that sounds like Rachel would if she had sucked all the helium out of a balloon or if she were watching cat videos upstairs in my bedroom. I put my ear up to the door: Rachel and Victoria are discussing something about ‘your turn to shine’ and ‘she’s not much for our parties’ and ‘hold my hair for me’.

You know why I’m not much for these parties? Because I think I just got punched in the fucking face.

I knock on the door loud enough that the people standing around with blue plastic cups can hear it over the dubstep vomit blaring from every corner of the auditorium. My ear goes to the door again: ‘hide it’,’we’re good’,’how do you know we’re good?’. The door opens just enough to admit Rachel’s head. She slinks out and shuts it behind her.

“What happened to your face?” she says.

“Good fucking question,” I say. “What are you and Victoria doing behind closed doors?”

“Taking care of business. If all goes well, we’ll be heading to L.A. for some modeling work next summer.”

“Awesome. Have you seen Nathan?”

“No. Nobody has. Victoria would have said something if he were going to be here.”

“Victoria says a lot of things. What else did she say?”

“Please, Chloe,” Rachel says. She grabs my arms. “Nathan isn’t here. Victoria didn’t do anything. Just leave her alone.”

I turn the door handle—locked. I knock again. Victoria opens. I push my way in with Rachel riding my ass. Security Guy runs a straw over a small pile of white powder on a folding card table. He stands up straight when he sees me.

“Every time I see your face, it’s messed up,” he says.

“It’s the company I keep,” I say.

“We brought enough to share,” says Victoria. She offers me a straw.

“As much as I’d like to give myself a brain tumor and go into cardiac arrest, I think I’ll pass.”

Security Guy tosses his straw onto the table.

“What kind of company do you keep?” he says.

“It’s more like a fan club that follows me around campus, just waiting to strike. Now that I think about, you must be pretty well-acquainted with one my fans in particular. Maybe we should call him up and let him know about the back room blowout that’s going down right now.”

Victoria throws her straw at me.

“This is yours,” she says. “Everyone at Blackwell knows you got Rachel hooked on it.”

Security Guy takes the radio off his hip and holds it up to his face.

“Madsen. I just caught your step-daughter snorting cocaine at the Halloween party in the auditorium.”

“Chloe Price?”

“Confirmed.”

“Damn it. On my way.”

Security Guy sets his radio on the table. I look at Rachel. She opens her mouth, looks at Victoria, looks at Security Guy, and closes her mouth. Rachel takes a step toward Victoria. Victoria moves back. I pick the straw up off the table.

“When in Rome, do cocaine.”

I suck sugar into my nostrils until Rachel pulls my hand away from my nose. A rush of exhilaration floods my chest. My face stops hurting. I wouldn’t mind giving Victoria a hug right now.

Security Guy picks up his radio.

“Madsen. Case of mistaken identity. Can confirm it was not Chloe Price.”

“Thank God.”

“We will need to bust up this party, though. It’s getting out of hand.”

“Copy that. ETA two minutes.”

Victoria takes us both by the hand and leads us out the back door. We’re hit with a gust of autumn air and a swirl of red, orange, and yellow leaves.

“Follow the trees to the swimming hall and skirt around back to the parking lot,” she says.

“Aren’t you coming?” I say.

“I have some cleanup to do.” She squints her eyes at me. “Nasty. Looks like you have some cleaning up to do as well. I’ll tell David the boys in the back room got out of hand. He’ll understand. Ciao ciao.”

The moment we sit down in my truck, Rachel wants to go to the junkyard to wait for the cocaine to wear off. Everything and anything sounds like a fabulous idea to me right now, so we’re heading off to hang out in a pile of trash two hours before midnight. When we get there, Rachel gets the brilliant idea to just do more coke instead of having to deal with the unwanted side effects of coming down, including dry mouth, depression, and not being high on coke. She even shows me how to shoot it directly into my veins and send myself soaring up into the Milky Way to travel alongside comets and meteors at speeds so fast they launch me straight into the sun, burning me up completely and sending me back down to planet Earth to stare at that once-mighty gas giant hanging high in the hazy sky while I lie on my back in the dirt and doze off into a fitful slumber.

Dad roasts a marshmallow in front of a blazing campfire. He’s close enough to get burned.

“Dad?”

The flames ignore him. A raven on his left leg squawks at me when I lock eyes with him. I put a marshmallow on the end of my pointed stick and hold it up to the fire. It melts into a puddle of black tar on the dirt. I look up at the stars in the sky.

“Where did the sun go?”

“Do night and day matter?” Dad says.

“No,” I say. “You’re the only thing that matters.”

Dad turns to me—the left side of his face is covered in seared, claw-shaped scars with little white flecks writing around inside them. The raven flaps up onto his shoulder and starts picking maggots out of his wounds. I scream as loud as I can, thrash my body in an attempt to wake myself up, the same thing I do every time my mind turns on while my body is still fast asleep—

“Chloe?”

I sit up so fast that my head hurts. Rachel’s eyes have black rings under them that make her look like she’s sixteen and forty years old at the same time. She can’t stop yawning.

“I can’t fall asleep,” she says. “I just want to crawl into a hole.”

“No,” I say. “You don’t. I just had the most fucked up nightmare I’ve ever had about my dad. I never want to see that shit again.”

“I’ve been thinking—I don’t ever want to feel like this again, either. I made a decision: I’m never going to do coke again.”

“How?”

“Together,” she says. “I don’t think we can do it any other way.”

“Deal,” I say.

We seal it with a kiss. I lie back down in the dirt. Rachel puts her head on my chest. I hold her in my arms until she stops shaking and starts dreaming.


	32. Chapter 32

“Sherry?” asks James.

His brown polo shirt and gold-rimmed reading glasses don’t make me feel any more at ease than I felt the first time I walked into his wooden wonderland mansion. I keep thinking about how the relatives of all those dismembered and horrifyingly reconstructed trees must feel knowing that their loved ones are now part of a Frankenstein house-box for flesh creatures.

“No, thanks. I don’t even know what all this is supposed to be. Should you really be offering booze to minors, Mr. District Attorney, sir?”

James reaches for the bottle that’s chilling in an ice bucket on a small table in front of his reclining chair. Smooth, grainy jazz warbles from the grooves of a modern-day Victrola record as he slow pours dark brown liquid into a fancy crystal goblet with a neck that’s longer than the actual thing that holds the drink.

“Williams and Humbert. You’d like it. It tastes like raisins and Christmas. Highly appropriate, given the context.”

He sweeps his hand across the living room. It looks like the inside of a Macy’s yuletide catalog display, complete with a giant, tinsel-heavy pine tree topped with a massive golden star that almost brushes up against the ceiling.

“You’ll be under my supervision the entire time,” he says. “Rose would give you a ride home.”

He takes a sip and places the glass on a standing table next to the arm of his chair. When he folds his hands across his chest, I do the same.

“I’m concerned about Rachel,” he says.

“You’re always concerned about Rachel. Why make a special occasion out of an everyday occurrence?”

“This is a serious situation which requires a level-headed approach. I would not have asked you to come here while Rachel is otherwise occupied unless I thought your intervention offered a superior solution.”

“Intervention?”

“I have reason to believe that Rachel has acquired habits of late that recall some of the mistakes that were made in the past.”

“The kinds of ‘mistakes’ that get innocent women kidnapped and made the subject of false rumors.”

“Worse than that.”

“What the fuck is worse than that?”

“I’m concerned that Rachel may be partaking in some of the same habits as the people with whom she chooses to spend her time.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Frank Bowers. I understand that you have conversations with him from time to time.”

I crush the padded ends of the easy chair in my palms. I stretch my legs out in front of me, showing off the white bottoms of sneakers on which I wrote the words “FUCK” and “YOU” one day after David rode my ass about my personal wardrobe.

“So what? Rachel can’t even light up a cigarette without coughing her lungs out.”

“I see,” says James.

“You’d better with those fancy glasses on your nose. I’ll take that sherry now.”

I take the glass from his hand before he’s done pouring it and slam the entire thing. It tastes like a slice of raisin-filled Christmas cake with a hint of bitterness. I set the glass down next to the ice bucket with a loud _thunk_.

“Hit me again.”

“We’ll wait fifteen minutes and see how you’re doing.”

“I’m going to need to be doing a lot better if you expect me to still be here fifteen minutes from now.”

James doesn’t move. He also doesn’t stop me from pouring myself a second glass. Or a third.

“Rose, dear, would you please set the sherry in the wine chiller? This ice is melting faster than I had anticipated.”

“Pardon me, Chloe,” says Rose.

When the bottle of sherry disappears, my mind doesn’t raise any objections. Warmth flows through my veins and overloads my synapses with puppies and rainbows and spikes and skulls and Rachel’s sugary lips.

“Somebody punched me in the face at the Halloween party,” I say. “The official story is that I must have been hallucinating.”

“Were you under the effects of any mood-altering substances?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Raymond is aware that the school spirit parties of late have been more permissive than they were in the past. He’s working to bring the issue to heel.”

“So Wells is working on making it a well heeled _issue_. That makes perfect sense.”

“Quite the contrary, Chloe. The money that’s been floating around is not being used for benign purposes. I have my suspicions that the criminal ring we took down last year is still having ripple effects throughout the community. Unfortunately, these aftershocks appear to be having the greatest impact at Blackwell.”

“Yeah, and a lot of people seem to be very interested in keeping up appearances.”

“My primary concern is Rachel’s continued well-being. So much so that I’m willing to make sacrifices. In this case, confidentiality.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The criminal organization that had, as of last summer, been operating unchecked for almost a year had turned to alternative means of transporting their products after we shut down their established supply lines. In desperation, I asked Rachel to acquire sealed alcohol containers from a source which would not arouse the suspicions of the gang’s distributors. We were able to insert tracking devices before resealing and replacing the bottles. When they disappeared from the chapel again a week later, the epidemic that had been sweeping through Tillamook and surrounding counties also vanished in short order.”

I frown.

“Just like Sera vanished into a rehab center that looked more like a prison? Why didn’t you just cut a deal with her to take down the ring instead of going through all that bullshit?”

“Sera admitted to collaborating with Damon in exchange for lenience. They used each other. She helped him strong-arm me into destroying evidence that could be used to incriminate him. In turn, she had him stage her kidnapping in order to garner sympathy from me so that I would accede to her request to visit with Rachel. When things went south, Sera turned on Damon.”

I shake my head.

“I have to admit, that’s the best story I’ve ever heard to cover for drinking someone else’s booze. I mean, I can believe that you’d ask Rachel to steal the good stuff for you, but the rest sounds like the plot of a rejected movie script.”

James takes off his golden glasses and sets them down on the table next to his chair.

“I make bad situations disappear, Chloe. Whether or not you believe me is, quite frankly, irrelevant.”

“Are you the one who made my black eye disappear? That was pretty fucking real to me, along with all the other shit that continues to happen right under your nose.”

“I see and hear quite a bit more than you might think. As much as I would like to, I cannot always be there for Rachel. You are my eyes and ears in the places I cannot go. I have given you the truth of the first, last, and only time that Rachel has been involved in my affairs. Upon reflection, I acknowledged that Rachel should not have to bear those burdens. I think you would agree. Now, I need you to tell me the unmitigated truth about any habits Rachel may have that will interfere with your continued friendship.”

I return his stone-faced stare with my own.

“We’ll be together no matter what,” I say.

James clears his throat.

“We’re considering sending Rachel to live with relatives out of state so she can finish her secondary education in a safe and sober environment. Neither of us wants that, but I can and will do whatever it takes to protect her. Are you like me in that regard?”

My hands unclench. I put my feet flat on the floor.

“I know how you think, Chloe,” he says. “I also know how you communicate. I need the truth.”

_“Chloe,” said Dad. “Can you tell your Uncle Aaron the grill is just about ready for those hamburgers? Oh, and don’t ruin the surprise for your mother—she’s still in the shower.”_

_We were having a Fourth of July celebration at our house. Mom had just gotten home from work because hungry truckers still need to eat on holidays, Uncle Aaron was taking a bunch of super-juicy hamburgers, hot dogs, and steaks out of the deep freezer, and Dad was being the Grillmaster in Chief, complete with a white grilling apron and chef’s hat._

_“Dad, you know that hat is for chefs and not grillmasters?”_

_“Well, I suppose this hat would make me the…Grillmaster in_ Chef. _”_

_I fell over onto the ground with a groan. My pirate cutlass—a gardening spade—fell out of my hand. Max walked up to me with a worried look on her freckled face. That dork looked worried even when we were just playing._

_“Captain Bluebeard!” she said. “Have you finally been waylaid for good?”_

_“No, my dear Long Max Silver. I’ve just been keelhauled by a terrible pun. Avast, landlubbers!” Max helped me up to my feet. “I have news to report to the scally-wags!”_

_“Chloe,” Dad said. “Your relatives aren’t scalawags. Tongue-wags, but not scalawags.”_

_Dad took out a huge rectangular block of sliced cheese for the patties._

_“Aye-aye, Grillmaster in_ Cheese! _” I said._

_“That’s my girl,” he said with a laugh. “Just like her dad.”_

_I had a grin on my face as I walked through the house’s sliding glass doors and announced to twenty of my aunts, uncles, and assorted whats-its that the grill was ready for its bounty of meat and not to ruin the surprise for Uncle Aaron’s mother because she was still in the shower. When the room erupted in laughter, Dad just shook his head and smiled a knowing smile._

“Rachel doesn’t have any habits that concern me,” I say.

“Would they concern me?”

“They shouldn’t.”

“And yet they do. I applaud your creativity. I work very closely with police interrogators who are experts in the fields of psychology and linguistics. Everything you’re saying right now, I’ve heard in one form or another many, many times before.”

Silence.

“With that in mind, I’m going to ask you one more time: does Rachel have any problems that I need to be aware of?”

I sit up in the recliner and lean my elbows onto my knees.

“What exactly would be the point of strolling through the gates of hell and telling the devil he’s evil?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“ _You_ are her fucking problem. You starve her when she doesn’t do what you want her to.”

“Excuse me? We’ve never starved Rachel.”

“You put her on anti-anxiety medications even though she doesn’t want or need them.”

“Her doctors prescribed them for her based on a clinical evaluation.”

“You started rumors that I got her hooked on drugs.”

“Those rumors arose after Frank leaked information about a conversation my office had with him. He later recanted his statement.”

I stand up.

“Exactly. You look at everyone else but yourself. The sad part of that is that even when you do, you don’t do anything about what you see, so even a mirror wouldn’t do you any good. The only thing you have eyes for is Rachel.”

James takes a sip from his glass, then stares at it before emptying it.

“Well, I’ve hit my limit for the day,” he says.

“Same.”

When I get home, I drain the rest of the bottle of sherry I snatched from the wine chiller before I left. I would have taken its twin, too, but Rose stopped me. I stare at the bottom of the bottle until my vision blurs. The only thing I see is my own face, trapped inside, staring back at me. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled wasn’t convincing the world that he didn’t exist—it was making people think that he was somebody other than their own damn selves.


	33. Chapter 33

“Chloe, it’s awesome to be playing with you again!”

Mikey sounds like he’s just ingested three pounds of raw sugar. Steph tells me he’s going through changes. We’ve got him on an audio-only connection on Steph’s laptop because she doesn’t want him to be distracted by the playing field she has set up on the floor of her dorm room. When I spot a wall poster sporting an impossibly beautiful elven paladin in form-fitting plate mail nestled between a hand-drawn picture of a dragon and a bookended row of gaming tomes, I understand what she means.

“You cool with not being able to see the game board?” I ask Mikey.

“I work better when I make pictures with my mind, anyways,” Mikey says. “And then I draw them!”

Steph’s white beanie is glued to Rachel’s hair as they go over the page-and-a-half-long back story Rachel wrote for her character. We’re coming up on the end of January with an icy fog in the air on one of the coldest days yet and Rachel is wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a slim, pink camisole that somehow still looks baggy on her. Steph isn’t much bigger than Rachel, but today, for whatever reason, her boobs are showing through the white “Arcadia Bay” logo on her maroon shirt. Rachel shoves me in the shoulder with a scowl that may or may not be playful.

“So, Steph,” I say, “you ready to go up against the living reincarnation of Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare was an amateur,” says Rachel. “Over his slit-throat corpse stands Captain Allegra Blondbrow, exiled leader of the world-renowned and locally reviled Band of Betsies, an all-female pirate crew that plunders men’s britches.”

“You steal people’s pants?” says Mikey.

“Indeed we do. Why bother to learn the art of pickpocketing when you can just take the entire thing?”

“What’s this awesome back story you guys are all lovey-dove about?” I ask.

Rachel and Steph detach their heads. Rachel plants herself right next to me.

“Captain Allegra left her crew on a secluded island hundreds of miles from civilization after a failed mutiny attempt,” explains Steph.

“You abandoned your crew to hang out with us?” asks Mikey. “Don’t you have responsibilities to them?”

“Heavens to Betsies, no. We do as we please, all of us, and what most of us please is to sit around on the beach drinking rum.”

“Okay,” says Steph. “Our story begins as our intrepid adventurers deal with the aftermath of their fabled encounter with the mighty Duurgarok, the minotaur chieftain who stood toe to toe with the cunning Elamon, wizard extraordinaire, and the late, great Chloe the Barbarian. Chloe gave her life and Elamon, his feet, to take down this once-ruthless warlord.”

Steph puts Mikey’s figurine on the playing board. It’s the blue-robed wizard from last time: a black-haired, caramel-skinned dude carrying a wooden staff. Basically, what Mikey will look like when he grows up and graduates from wizard school.

“Elamon has regained the power to walk after having sought out the renowned healer Miracle Max who resides in a small house atop the Chasm of Undeath, a high-walled valley inhabited by the tormented souls of those Miracle Max was not able to fully revive. Miracle Max was able to reattach Elamon’s severed feet, but at the price of his assistance in opening the Reliquary of Despair, a fabled artifact thought to contain a mythical healing focus. Its power comes at a price, however: the box kills the person who opens it.”

“I know!” says Mikey. “We’ll use Chloe. She’s already dead. You can’t kill someone twice.”

“I think it’s great that you’re putting my corpse to good use,” I say. “But how can I open a box that kills me if I’m already dead?”

“Upon examining your body,” Steph says, “Miracle Max finds that you are only mostly dead and has agreed to revive your completely dead body after you open the box in exchange for an item of value.”

Rachel holds up the bracelet on her wrist.

“I’ve been wearing this ever since I could hold a cutlass between my teeth,” she says. “Its value is immeasurable. Revive this wretched scalawag and my treasure becomes yours.”

“Miracle Max agrees,” says Steph. “She uses Chloe’s hand to open the box and retrieve the focus found inside. Chloe is now completely dead. A warhorn sounds in the distance.”

“Warhorn?” says Elamon. “Who could it be?”

“Miracle Max informs you that the box’s guardians have been summoned and will be here within minutes,” says Steph. “You must act quickly. The revivifying vapors must be administered to Chloe via mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Miracle Max offers to do it for you, or you can choose another member of your party.”

“So,” I say, “my choices are to either kiss some wrinkled old bald guy with a mushroom for a nose or a rum-swilling pirate captain?”

“Technically you don’t have a say in the matter since you’re dead,” says Steph. “But it says here that Miracle Max is a fair-skinned young woman with flowing brown hair, sapphire eyes, and an almond-shaped nose.”

“Did you write it that way on purpose?” says Rachel.

“Uh, no,” says Steph. “I wrote this three years ago.”

“And didn’t change it. Hmph.”

Rachel turns her head toward the window. I shrug, lean over, and kiss Steph right on the lips.

“Oh, no!” yells Rachel. “We’re surrounded by ogres!”

“We are?” I say.

“Actually, yes,” says Steph, thumbing rapidly through the pages of her monster manual. “You are suddenly surrounded by seven ogres who announce themselves as the guardians of the Reliquary of Despair.”

“Oh, man!” says Mikey. “I wasn’t ready for giant-type creatures. All of my spells are designed for medium and large creatures.”

“We’re all going to die,” says Rachel. “And it’s probably going to be a horrible, terrible death.”

“As you are speaking,” Steph says, “each of the ogres takes a massive war axe from the holster on its back. They swing their weapons around their heads effortlessly. They chop at imaginary foes with calculated strikes, hoping to scare you off by demonstrating their expertise with their razor-sharp blades.”

“Am I alive?” I ask.

“You are,” says Steph.

“I jump up from my death bed and stun them with a Full Metal Battle Cry!”

“I don’t think that’s the name of it,” says Mikey.

“And what is your battle cry?” asks Steph.

“Uh…GET SHIT ON! And then I cast…Rectal Volcano Whirlwind Cleave!”

“I don’t see that one in the book,” says Mikey.

“Chloe the Barbarian,” says Steph, “half-naked and still drunk from the effects of the revivification process, bellows the words ‘GET SHIT ON!’ at the top of her lungs. Each of the ogres is temporarily dazed and takes a half-step to maintain their equilibrium. Chloe takes advantage of this and unsheathes her own massive battle axe, swirling around in a pitched frenzy. Her axe strikes five of the ogres straight across their unprotected bellies, exposing their innards and causing their intestines to spill out onto the ground in a massive, foul-smelling heap in front of them.”

“Gross!” says Mikey.

“That’s unfortunate,” says Rachel. She won’t stop staring at me.

“The off-balance ogres, in response to their sudden, massive blood loss and internal organ failure, fall forward onto their own guts face-first, sending mucus and bile flying toward your party. The remaining two ogres, when they regain their senses, take stock of the scene before them. They throw their weapons away and take off running as fast as their stumpy legs will allow them.”

“ _Fuck_ yes!” I shout.

“No sooner has Chloe defeated the ogres than a giant red dragon swoops down from the sky and swallows her whole.”

“Oh, my,” says Rachel as she cracks open a soda. “How unfortunate.”

“For _you_ ,” says Steph. “The dragon is the real guardian of the Reliquary of Despair. Chloe wanted to flex her creative tabletop muscle, so she agreed to be eaten by a dragon in exchange for Game Master powers.”

“Oh,” says Rachel. “Well, I suppose today is a good day to die.”

“Hail, Elamon,” I say. “I am known in these parts as the Victorious Chaser, for everything I pursue falls at my feet, defeated and sometimes also de-feeted, because I remove the feet of the people who make me angry.”

“Hail, giant blue dragon!” says Mikey. “I must submit my humblest apologies. I was not expecting your sudden arrival, nor did I anticipate that you would already know my name before ever having met me. Might I inquire as to the identity of the person whose feet your wear around your neck, and the transgression that caused them to meet their feet—I mean, their fate—so that I might avoid losing my feet for a second time?”

“The feet you smell are those of the once-mighty wizard Douchemaster, also known as the Mad Son, retainer to the evil tyrant king Sir James Jackwell, at whose command the wizard put a curse upon me that sealed the gap beneath my tail, causing me to be unable to fully process my daily intake of cows, villagers, and hay bales. Correct me if I’m mistaken, Elamon, but are you not also a wizard? I despise wizards.”

“No! I’m a magician,” says Mikey. “Everyone thinks I’m a wizard, but I don’t actually hurt anyone with my spells. Especially not dragons.”

“Indeed, fair dragon,” says Rachel. “We mean you no harm. I am Princess Allegra of the peaceful Kingdom of Ambaria, here to warn you that my heartless father, King James Jackwell, seeks to exile me for sympathizing with your plight.”

“Alas,” I say, “Then it seems that you, too, are doomed to a life of being full of crap.”

“Nay, dragon, for I will not share your fate. Nor shall you submit to yours, for I hold the key to your salvation: answer me these questions three and I shall set you free.”

“I set Allegra on fire,” I say.

“Wait, what?” says Steph. “Why are you setting your girlfriend on fire?”

“Yes,” says Rachel, “why _are_ you setting your girlfriend on fire?”

“Because I tire of the questions posed by mortals,” I say. “Where I seek to conceal the truth, it is uncovered. Where I seek to reveal the truth, it is used against me. James Jackwell launched a volley of flaming arrows at my scales; little did he know that my scales reflect everything they come across, even the faces of self-righteous rulers who do not like what they see.”

“I like your style,” says Steph.

“So, are we actually going to fight the dragon?” says Mikey.

“Of course not,” says Rachel. She leans back onto her palms. “You didn’t think we could actually fight a dragon as powerful as this one, did you? Noble dragon, I have wonderful news for you. The wizard Elamon finds himself in possession of a healing talisman that was sealed within the Reliquary of Despair. Would you mind placing your body over the Chasm of Undeath while Sir Elamon begins his incantations?”

“When did Elamon get the talisman?” asks Steph.

“I plundered it when Miracle Max wasn’t looking,” says Rachel.

“I’m cool with that,” I say. “Ready when you are.”

“I take the healing talisman in my hand and channel its powers into the dragon’s rear end,” says Mikey.

“As you channel the talisman’s power,” I say, “the dragon begins to growl louder than anything you’ve ever heard. His belly rumbles, his tail sticks up straight into the air, and then you nearly pass out from the stench of the massive stream of brown liquid that shoots out of the dragon’s backside with the force of a drunk frat boy’s fire hose vomit. The dragon screams in agony as he expels ten years’ worth of meals into the chasm below. You hear even more heinous screams from the tormented souls within the chasm as they boil to death in the dragon’s steaming excrement. You collapse to the ground at the stench. With his dying breath, the dragon thanks you. Then, because he’s about a quarter of the size he was previously, he loses his balance, topples into the stream of poop, and drowns in it.”

“Holy crap,” says Mikey.

“Floating above the surface of the dragon’s vitriol,” I say, “is one side of his face. His eyelid is still open. Upon closer inspection, you find that the dragon’s eye is actually a diamond. With some effort, you are able to pry the jewel from the socket. The Scroll of Identification in your inventory reveals a gem which has been attuned to the stars. When you hold it up to the night sky, it always shines in the direction of True North.”

“Hey, Chloe,” says Mikey’s big brother Drew over the connection. “Did I hear my name? You have perfect timing. We’re heading off to the store now.”

“Okay, bro,” says Mikey. “Captain Allegra, since you have a greater interest in treasure than I do, I think you should have this.”

“No, my fair wizard,” says Rachel, “my travels are over. I shall return to my crew and tell them of your bravery when faced with a dragon one hundred times your size whose temper had been hardened by deceitful men.” Rachel slides over to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Take the diamond with you when you return to the green pastures of your homeland in the north. My spirit will be there with you, guiding you along the way. Farewell to you, too, Miracle Max.”

When she tries to kiss Steph on the lips, she finds mine instead.


	34. Chapter 34

“Dude, I’m totally getting a C in math thanks to Rachel!” says Justin. “She can tutor me any day of the week.”

While the rest of us sit around the courtyard picnic table right outside the Drama Lab window, Justin’s ass gathers dirt at our feet. A long, black skateboard rests under his arm as he watches his fellow Tony Hawk enthusiasts slide down the handrails of the main stairway that leads up to the courtyard. He’s wearing one of the Pisshead t-shirts Skip handed out at Blackwell last week, which is a pretty safe bet that someone sold Justin his own shirt when he was high.

“Hey!” I say, bending over at the waist to give Justin a playful shove in the shoulder. “Hands off, bitch.”

“Burn,” says Steph.

“Ouch,” says Trevor. He’s Justin’s stockier, not-as-high counterpart. He wears heavy, baggy clothing all year round, no matter how hot it gets. “That’s what I should tell my teachers. They keep riding my ass about what I want to do with my life. I wish they’d leave us alone and give us some space so we can figure stuff out.”

One of the skaters loses his balance and takes the railing right between his legs. Trevor and Justin cover their own crotches in sympathy.

“So you can figure out what kind of padding to use when you go for a sack ride,” I say.

“I have protection,” Trevor says. “I have to with all these hot new girls coming in. Have you seen the head cheerleader?”

“Who, Dana?” I say. “She isn’t exactly new, dude. You even going to be here with that report card of yours?”

“You should listen to her, man,” says Justin. “She’s an expert.”

“Look who’s talking,” says Trevor. “What do your grades look like?”

“I’m getting all Cs,” says Justin.

“How the hell are you getting all Cs?” I say. “You’re blazed up into the stars every single time Rachel and I hang out with you. What does your schedule even look like?”

“I’m taking gym and math and…I don’t know. History?”

“Welcome to Blackwell, where you can be so high that you don’t remember the names of the classes you’re taking and still pass them.”

“Guess I should have asked Rachel out earlier,” says Justin. He takes his glasses off and cleans them with his shirt. “I snooze, I lose the leading role.”

“Speaking of which,” I say, “are we going to be seeing people who can actually act in the plays around here, Miss Casting Director?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Steph says. “There’s a new ‘patron’ system in place that gives preference to those who show an aptitude for the arts. My job is to make sure that people are given appropriate roles according to their abilities.”

And that’s Justin’s cue: I guess his role in this play is to light up a fucking blunt.

“Some of the plays at Blackwell have been pretty wack lately,” says Trevor as he shakes his head. “You gotta wonder whether maybe old man Keaton is losing his marbles.”

“He’s going through an experimental phase,” says Steph. She stands up.

“Like Nathan Prescott?” says Trevor. He’s up off the picnic table bench. “That’s one hell of an experiment, don’t you think? Dude is totally nuts on stage—Officer Buzzkill at six o’clock.”

“Isn’t it like one o’clock?” says Justin. “Oh. Robocop.”

A fire-haired girl on a bicycle with a bulging brown backpack sporting a sticker that says “CARS ARE COFFINS” cruises past the fountain in front of David. Justin throws his board down and tries to roll through the grass in the same direction as the redhead. David jogs up to him and brings him to a stop with a hand on his shoulder.

“Have you been smoking marijuana?” says David.

“Whatever. Skip never hassled us like this.”

“Skip isn’t here any more,” says David. “I am. And I’ve got my eye on you.”

David looks at me. There’s a hand on my shoulder.

“Come on,” Rachel whispers.

Steph decides to follow us.

“I was trying taking a break from all the drama,” she says. “Looks like it followed me.”

The boisterous warm-up rehearsal of a scene from _Moby Dick_ falters when Rachel, Steph, and I stroll through the far side of the room, but quickly recovers when Mr. Keaton reminds the band of would-be booty hunters that they are now reformed and engaged in the much more morally upright business of harpooning groin-chomping whales.

“What are you looking at?” I ask Rachel. “And why are you letting them stare at you?”

Rachel tries to catch Steph’s eye. Steph heads into the dressing room ahead of us.

“I’m not _letting_ them do anything,” says Rachel.

A chorus of voices sounds.

“It’s over, Captain Blackrot,” shouts Hayden as he climbs on top of Mr. Keaton’s desk wearing a pirate’s hat and eyepatch. “I have the high ground!”

I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out of their sockets. Rachel shadows me into the dressing room, where Victoria Chase sits in a padded chair at the far end running a small, white circle over her face. Steph disappears behind the changing partition next to Victoria.

“They’re getting quite into it, aren’t they?” says Mr. Keaton. “I’ve always appreciated their unbridled enthusiasm and willingness to transcend the constraints of mundane, academic life for the sake of their passions. I’d rather have one over-the-top performer who gives it their all than ten mechanically gifted automatons programmatically parsing their way through the text of a script.”

“Mr. Keaton,” says Rachel.

“Rachel, my dear muse.” He clasps his hands as he joins her at one of the vanity mirrors. “Alas, I’m afraid there is no part in this spring’s performance that is commensurate with the brilliance of your shining, rising star.”

“You’re too modest.”

“Ah, that modesty were chief among my flaws. I’m afraid your star is rising so high that I’m no longer able to see it.”

“Is that your way of saying we don’t need to go through the formalities of an audition?”

“Please indulge my forthrightness. The leading part has been awarded to Victoria Chase. Her audition was quite remarkable. I wouldn’t dream of casting you in a secondary role.”

“I guess it’s her time to shine. Each star glows in turn, and when one fades, another takes its place.”

“You’ll always be a star in our hearts,” says Mr. Keaton. “We’re blessed to have a full cast of talented performers this year, but none so talented as you. I’m afraid we simply don’t have any roles for which you aren’t overqualified. You have, to be quite honest, outgrown our humble troupe. It’s time for you to shine even brighter on a more elevated stage, one that rises to meet your blossoming ambitions.”

“Of course,” says Rachel. “I just didn’t think this day would come so soon.”

“I’ve reached out to the performance committee at Ashland and sent them a glowing recommendation. All you need do is put on your performer’s mask and dazzle. Surely that must allay or at the very least assuage any uncertainty you may have had with regard to your dramatic future.”

The guys in the next room have just launched their dramatic vessel into full ballyhoo mode.

“Sounds like someone’s walking the plank,” I say.

“Indeed,” says Mr. Keaton. “I’ll send you an e-mail with the contact information of my associates at the Shakespeare Festival organization committee. I’m positive they’ll adore you as much as I have—we all have.”

Outside, it sounds like Mr. Keaton is directing a new scene, one that has the crew cycling through inspirational monologues before lunging at the captain like Olympic fencers. Meanwhile, Rachel walks the plank over to Victoria who can’t seem to get enough of her own face in the mirror. When she arrives, Rachel turns her head back in my direction. I trudge my ass over there.

“What’s the matter, didn’t get your fix today?” says Victoria.

“Fancy meeting you in the changing room,” I say. “It’s too bad you didn’t change into a decent human being.”

She’s dressed to the nines in a shimmering red ball gown with sequins, red velvet shoes, and a glittering ruby hairpiece that makes her look like Jessica Rabbit if Jessica Rabbit had chopped off half her hair and dyed it blond. Come to think of it, that’s probably insulting to Jessica Rabbit.

“I just heard the good news,” says Rachel. “This is your big debut. May I?”

Rachel starts applying bright red lipstick to Victoria’s lips.

“I plan on coming out in style.” Victoria presses her lips together. “You’re not worried that I’m going to overshadow your legacy, are you, dear?”

“I’d be happy for you if you did. We have no business putting ourselves up on that stage and demanding people’s attention if we’re not going to go all out.”

“You get it.” Victoria uses one fingertip to dab at an invisible blemish on her cheek. “So many people here just don’t get it. Speaking of getting things, did you get my letter?”

“The bonny lines therein thou sent me, how to the nines they did content me,” says Rachel.

“I’m sure those bonny lines contented your sinuses,” I say. “Or is ‘nine’ the length of the stick holding Cinderella’s tail bone up straight?”

Rachel meets my eyes in the middle of picking bits of glitter out of Victoria’s hair. Victoria frowns at herself in the mirror.

“Are you talking to me?” she says. “I ask because you seem to have developed a reputation for launching unprovoked assaults on friend and foe alike. Nathan’s father wasn’t too happy with you when he found out about your repeated, persistent harassment.”

“Bullshit. He’s the one who came at me first.”

“That’s not how the big man sees it. Rachel, I do hope you’ve trained your pet well enough not to soil your patron’s carpet.”

“Patron?” I say. “Is that what this shit is about, Steph?”

Steph emerges from behind the changing partition.

“What?” she says.

“You look resplendent,” Rachel says to Victoria. “Japanese?”

“You know it,” says Victoria. “Speaking of which…”

Victoria takes a small glass out of her purse, followed by a small bottle. She pours herself a thimbleful, then sends it down the hatch.

“Magnificent,” Rachel says.

She gets down on one knee, takes Victoria’s fingers in her hand, raises them to her lips, and kisses them like she’s giving a lollipop a blowjob. I’m about to be sick.

“Get off your goddamn knees,” I say.

“I keep telling her that,” says Victoria, “but she doesn’t listen to me.”

“You’re worshiping her while she does shots at one in the afternoon?” I ask Rachel.

“It brings out the natural glow in my skin,” says Victoria. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand drinking for your health.”

Rachel stands up and caps the lipstick.

“Your lips are done,” she says.

“I really wish they were,” I say. “They look magnificent when they’re not moving.”

“As do you,” says Victoria, “especially when you’re moving in the direction of the nearest exit.”

“Chloe wants to be cool,” says Rachel. She lifts her eyebrows and tilts her head down at me. “She really does.”

“Oh, fine,” says Victoria. She floats the back of her hand in front of her. “Chloe can play, too.”

“Why would you even ask me to do something like that?” I say.

“Because I know who punched you in the face at the party,” says Victoria.

I walk over and stand in front of her so she can’t see herself in the mirror.

“Finally ready to confess?”

“It wasn’t me, Chloe. But I know who it was. I’d like us to be…well, not friends, but…cool. Is that the right word?”

“You’d look good on ice.”

Rachel gives me the Doe Eyes. Not this time, Barbie. I grab Victoria’s wrist and pull her toward me with all my might. She’s way fucking faster than I expected—her hands are on my chest almost immediately. She shoves herself back into her chair and crosses her arms, trying to murder me with her eyes.

“Who was it?” I say.

“Kurt Bruce,” she says. “You told Sam to confess to Nathan. Kurt got pissed off because he actually wanted a date with Sam, so he waited until things got quiet and hired a guy from out of town to give you a black eye. You brought this on yourself. In any case, neither Kurt nor Officer Stroud are still at Blackwell, so you have nothing to complain about. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m going to need to freshen up my skin again while I prepare for rehearsal. In private.”

Steph takes out a bottle, shakes it, and starts spraying Victoria’s hair with more chemicals that anyone could ever possibly need. Rachel and I ignore whistles and cheers from boys whose testicles probably haven’t even descended yet. I turn her around in the hallway.

“I don’t believe her,” I say.

“Well, good for you,” says Rachel. “I was just trying to be nice to her, not make out with her.”

“I figure if you’re going to bow down to the devil in a red dress, you might as well go the whole ‘bonny nine’ yards.”

“You made your point, but she’s not going to be happy about it.”

I wave away the overpowering smell of hair pomade wafting through the hallway. Rachel coughs.

“We’re going to have to extra-nice from now on—”

Sure enough, it’s David in his goon suit.

“You could learn a thing or two from Rachel,” I say. “Extra-nice.”

“The only thing I’m learning are the consequences of not doing your job the way you’re supposed to,” he says to Rachel.

Rachel’s response is to kiss me right in front of him. I can’t close my eyes or put my hands down. David grunts. Boots clomp around the corner. I push Rachel away.

“You need to stop kissing people who aren’t me,” she says.

“Deal, on the condition that you never do that in front of David again.”

“Is that not your thing?”

“Paying lip service in the presence of assholes drunk on their own power is definitely not my thing.”


	35. Chapter 35

“Less Drinking, More Thinking,” I say, reading from one of the dozens of posters slapped up onto the cork board in Blackwell’s main hallway.

“Stay Alive with a Designated Drive,” says Rachel.

“Sex Can Wait, Masturbate.”

Rachel peers at the board.

“I don’t see that one,” she says.

When she spots the huge grin on my face, she stomps on my shoe as hard as she can.

“Ow! Fuck. How can a body as scrawny as yours output that much force?”

“That’s what you get for not doing your physics homework. Should have worn your boots today.”

May is now Alcohol Awareness Month at Blackwell because some jackass couldn’t keep his swimming trunks on at one of the “fully loaded” pool parties that apparently keep flying under the radar in plain sight. So when I spot a small, solitary flyer advertising abstinence amid a tree-killing sea of “alcohol is bad” propaganda leaflets, I’m a hell of a lot more sympathetic than I would have been this time last year.

“Maybe we should promote abstinence on campus,” I say.

Rachel raises her stomping leg to waist height.

“Oh, this one actually exists.” Her foot glides down onto my shoe. “No sex? What planet is this person from?”

“Maybe they’re just suggesting that people at least have the decency to leave city limits before they get it on.”

“Since when are you an advocate for decency?”

A passing tour group saunters down the hall, looking around at everything in sight except the pair of ghosts hiding out in the open. As usual, the tour guide is doing that thing where they talk while walking backwards and pointing at all the shit they think is important: this is where you sign your life away, this is where you hand over your wallet, this is where you take a shit, this is where you drink yourself into a coma, and this is where you go for counseling when you realize just how much you’ve fucked up by deciding to attend Blackwell Academy.

“Her,” Rachel whispers. She points at a pale blonde wearing a black skirt and cardigan, a white blouse, a cross around her neck, and a hairstyle straight out of my grandma’s 1960s high school yearbook. “I bet you five bucks she put it up there.”

“Dude, you already have all my money. Besides, who gives a shit? You think anybody in this place is actually going to take that poster seriously? I’m surprised some of these girls aren’t running day care centers from their dorm rooms by now.”

A couple of heads from the tour group turn in my direction, half of them with awkward smiles on their faces, the other half surprised to see the face attached to the voice of truth. They follow their guide on a slow walk toward the art classroom. Rachel flips her hair and starts running her fingers through it. Her grooming session is interrupted by Justin who rolls up to her—literally rolls up on his skateboard—with a piece of paper in his hand and a huge grin underneath his dollar store glasses.

“Dude, I totally got a C+ in math thanks to you!” he says. “That’s, like, above average.”

Rachel leans in for a high five, sending Justin backwards on his board.

“See?” she says as he rolls away. “I always knew you were a cut above the rest.”

“Yeah, I think he would benefit from a cut in a certain place,” I mutter.

Nathan rounds the corner with Victoria on his hip. She sees me and drags him over to the other side of the hallway. He stops muttering long enough to curse me out.

“Yeah, keep talking to yourself,” I say.

“Boys, boys, boys,” says Victoria. “Settle down. Rachel, a word?”

“I’ll be right back,” says Rachel.

“Same,” I say.

“Hey, Price,” says Nathan.

He comes up to me and stands close enough to slap.

“How’s it going, Chloe? It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough. You know I’m not interested in living in an episode of the fucking Sopranos, right?”

“Chill the fuck out, Price. I came here in peace.”

Steph comes running out of the Drama Lab and pulls up next to us.

“I know it’s none of my business,” she says, “but I think maybe you two should just agree to stay away from each other.”

“Yeah, it kinda is none of your fucking business,” says Nathan, “but Chloe and I are pals. Right, Chloe?”

“Do _pals_ have their dads hire goons to punch each other in the face at parties?”

“Look, that was Victoria, all right? Told some guy she’d hook him up if he unloaded on you ‘cause she doesn’t like it when Rachel brings you to her parties. Get off my nuts about that shit.”

“You’re full of shit. I bet your friend with benefits is on your nuts all the time.”

“She’s like a sister to me, you fucking pervert. You wouldn’t understand. The only girl I’ve ever been with is Sam, and that’s the goddamn truth. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Same thing that’s wrong with you. How many fucking meds are you on right now?”

“My dad has me on a regimen. It’s for my own good. He has his reasons for the things he does, so leave him out of this. You don’t see me fucking with your family, do you?”

“My family is already fucked. Anything you could do to my family would probably be an improvement at this point. And I didn’t say shit about your dad.”

“You accused him of hiring ‘goons’, you fucking pothead. If my dad wants something to happen, then that’s what happens. You have parents too, right? Kids don’t get to tell their parents what to do. How many fucking meds…Jesus Christ. You’re a fucking chimney every day. I’m surprised you haven’t upgraded to meth. That shit would make your face look a lot worse than a sucker punch.”

He takes a heavy-looking paperweight out of his pocket and shows it to me.

“You see this?” he says. “That’s called protection.”

“Put that away,” says Steph. “Mr. Madsen is right around the corner.”

“Madsen is looking out for me. Good thing he is.”

“The only thing he looks out for is trouble,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m glad he’s on my side.”

“Nathan,” says Steph, “put that away.”

To my surprise, he does.

“I, uh…need to ask you favor,” he says. “It’s about Sam.” He looks at Steph. “Let’s go in the science classroom. Ms. Grant isn’t using it right now.”

I take up a spot in front of the supply cabinets near the skeleton in the back of the classroom. Nathan stands on the other side of one of the tables. Steph is in the corner opposite me, trying to make herself invisible. Over by the fish tank stands Brooke Scott in a light saber hoodie and protective goggles, pouring liquids between test tubes and beakers.

“Don’t mind me,” she says. “Just using the science classroom for its intended purpose.”

Nathan leans over the table on his palms.

“My dad has the entire area locked down. I can’t do anything without him knowing about it. I was wondering if maybe you and Rachel could drop me off at the airport when you go to Los Angeles this summer. I’m gonna fly to New Hampshire.”

Rachel slips into the classroom. Brooke stares dagger at her. Rachel ignores her.

“You didn’t tell me we were going to L.A.,” I say.

“I just finalized my modeling gig with Victoria’s help,” she says. “We’re on for the city of angels.”

“All you’d have to do is drop me off,” says Nathan. “I wouldn’t bother you at all.”

I walk over and stand next to the skeleton. I have more in common with this dude right now than anyone else in the room. I didn’t think Nathan would, though—he comes up to me and shows me a photo he keeps inside his jacket: a picture of Sam with a little boy in a onesie who looks just like Nathan.

“He’s never seen me,” says Nathan. “I want the choice to break the mold. Be a good father to my son.”

I feel like something should be happening inside me. Nothing does. I hand back the photo and take out one of my own.

“That’s my dad. Dead. My best friend. As good as dead. And there’s me. The mold is broken into pieces, and here I am.” I take the photo from him. “I’m not responsible for getting Sam pregnant, I’m not responsible for righting your father’s wrongs, and I am not going to take responsibility for reuniting a family I have nothing to do with.”

Nathan stares at the skeleton. He blinks.

“I just thought maybe you’d want to help out since you have experience being disconnected from your father.”

I put the skeleton’s arm around my shoulder.

“Maybe the best way for you to break the mold is by giving your son the gift of not missing something he never knew.”

Glass clatters against a table, but doesn’t break. Nathan looks at his shoes.

“I guess I’ll just have to find another way,” he says to the hallway.

The front door opens to admit Ms. Grant who seems surprised to see so many people in the classroom so early before the start of the class period. She places a thick stack of books on her desk and takes a seat.

“I’m calling in that favor,” says Brooke.

“What favor?”

She takes off her plastic goggles.

“The one you said you’d owe me when Rachel did a line of coke right in front of me.”

That gets Ms. Grant’s attention. Rachel clasps her arm and looks out the windows.

“I heard you talking out in the hallway,” says Brooke. “I think Rachel should join a school organization and do something to give back to the community.”

“That’s it?”

“Doing the right thing—that’s it.”

“You’re right,” says Rachel.

“You don’t need to state the obvious,” says Brooke.

When we file out into the hallway, Little Miss Hair Swirl is still there, stapling a poster up in the middle of the mess of advertisement spam. While Rachel strikes up a conversation with her, I size up my artist’s canvas: _Before You Get in Bed, Plan Ahead_.

“Chloe,” says Rachel, “this is Kate. She was wondering if we were interested in helping her promote abstinence on campus.”

“What are you doing?” says Kate.

I put the cap back on my marker and slide it into my pocket.

“I was just going to give back to the community by improving our message.”

“What was your improvement, Chloe?” asks Rachel.

“Before You Get in Bed, Plan Ahead, By Giving Head.”

“Maybe not,” says Kate.

“You’ll have to excuse my girlfriend,” says Rachel. “She struggles with the muse that inspires her. She’s not a student here, but I am, and we’re both interested in doing something to give back to the campus community.”

“Okay,” says Kate.

“Teen pregnancy has been an issue on campus,” says Rachel. “I’d like to help the girls here be more responsible and make informed decisions.”

“You mean the girls here have been getting pregnant?” asks Kate.

“Just one,” says Rachel, “but that’s one more than we needed. She ended up leaving campus.”

“That sounds awful,” says Kate. “Well, you can come to the office with me and register the group for next year.”

“I’d love to. Wouldn’t you love to, Chloe?”

“Anything to keep the people here from breeding.”

“Fantastic.”

“I’ve always said this place needs an enema.”

“Chloe.”

“Did I say enema? I meant rectal volcano.”

“Chloe has a way with words,” Rachel says to Kate. “The downside is that she has no control over the muse that inspires her.”

“You don’t have to control her,” says Kate, “just learn to live with her responsibly. That’s what abstinence is all about.”

“Wisdom and inspiration,” says Rachel. “A match made in heaven.”

That gets a smile from Kate. Rachel puts one arm around Kate’s shoulders. The fingernails attached to the hand on her other arm dig into my waist as I join them in their slow walk down the hallway.


	36. Chapter 36

Rachel floors the gas pedal of her cherry red Malibu, sending us racing down the California interstate at speeds the manufacturer probably did not intend, even if the owner is an eighteen year-old birthday girl pretending to drive a sports car. When she spots a Highway Patrol cruiser on the other side of the median, she slows down to a respectable ninety. She shouts something at the windshield, then squeezes my hand. It feels pretty weak, but then again I’ve been spending the better part of the last three hours rocking out to a pair of bass-boosted earphones hooked up to the slate phone Rachel bought me a while back—a black rectangle you’re supposed to use for making phone calls has turned out to be the most kick-ass music player I’ve ever owned.

Rachel smacks my shoulder a couple times. I take out my ear buds.

“So what did you do while you were all by your lonesome for three days?” she says.

“The usual shit: smoked, drew pictures of you, listened to music, talked to Mom, avoided step-ass. He finally stopped busting my balls about looking for a job next year after Mom got on his case about how long it took him to find one. How was your birthday bash?”

“Fairly tame. Which is to say, we visited a lot of our very domesticated relatives. Congratulations on adulthood, Rachel. Wishing you all the best in your final year of school, Rachel. Here’s a little something to help you along, Rachel. Why, Aunt Janice, you shouldn’t have.”

“But she totally did. Five fucking grand.”

I feel like counting it again, just to make sure it’s all there and it’s all real.

“Put the envelope in the glove compartment,” Rachel says.

“Sure. I couldn’t find anything in the news about your performance. How was it?”

“Nothing worth telling. I landed a bit part as a ghost in a gauntlet of underworld spirits that the Knight in Shining Armor passes through on his hero’s journey. I stood opposite a teenage boy who was so nervous that he projectile vomited all over the front of my verdure gown. I got to sit in a three-legged wooden chair for forty-five minutes while I breathed in the lasagna he ate for lunch. Turned my champagne dress the color of table wine.”

“Someone pukes on you and you’re fussy about whether the cleaners will be able to work the pasta out of your costume. Sounds like you got the same upgrade Steph did.”

“Upgrade?”

“You get promoted and your job gets shittier.”

“That’s how the world works. Some Hollywood producers started as hairdressers and got barfed on all the way to the top.”

When we roll into downtown Los Angeles, I have to stick my head out the window to see all the way up to the tops of the buildings. Rachel taps my legs and asks me to pull up the directions on my phone. When she coasts to a stop in front of our luxury hotel, a swanky-looking, nicely-dressed dude in a black tuxedo vest, black tie, and freshly pressed black slacks greets us at the curb, then takes off back into the hotel as soon as I take my beanie off to shake the dust out of it. Rachel struts off after him.

“My manager gets on my case when I forget to wear my hat,” is what he says, which is strange because he’s not wearing a hat when he says it and neither is anyone else when we go to check in. Maybe these are the kinds of people who give you better treatment if you slap down stacks of hundreds in front of them.

“Thank you, dear,” says Rachel as she scoops up the bills off the desk. “Why don’t you sign in?” She points at her signature in the log book.

“ _Norma Jean Baker._ ”

I take the pen and _embellish_ two inches’ worth of real estate with my calling card. When I’m done, the hotel manager swivels the book stand around and gives me a practiced smile that leaves enough room for four, maybe five hundred dollar bills between his tightly pressed lips.

“ _Spliff Smokenstein._ Enjoy your stay, madam.”

The first thing I need to do once I’ve kicked off my shoes and christened the toilet is hop in the shower and scrub the road dust off my body. It’s also the first thing Rachel needs to do. As usual, she’s still a skeleton, and also as usual, my body still reacts to her.

“Can you wash my hair for me?” she asks.

“Fuck yes, I can wash your hair for you.”

She turns and arches an eyebrow at me.

“Thanks.”

She rinses her scalp before I’m even done with the shampoo and jumps out of the stall, making a whole bunch of noise about spending all that money just to get a room that doesn’t even have a working hair dryer. Instead, she dries her hair on the highway at eighty miles an hour while I drive her to an appointment that can’t be missed because it’s worth two grand, high-level contacts, and a boost to her portfolio. Even at these speeds, people are still passing us.

“The cops in Arcadia Bay could retire off these people,” I shout.

“They’d never catch them,” Rachel says.

I accelerate.

No beer is allowed on set—the guy calling the shots is very particular about food and drink—so I chill on a high-backed stool with a bottle of root beer on a bar-style counter while I mess around with tweaking the thousands of photos Rachel has of herself on her laptop. While I’m doing that, the real Rachel appears in a ball gown wearing rouge make-up and a diamond tiara that’s inlaid with actual diamonds. If she didn’t wear her hair down to her shoulders, she could pass for Victoria Chase.

“And one from the side. Perfect.”

Michael talks so fast I can’t keep up, which is great because I don’t have to.

“Now with the rose in your hands. Up against the wall. Fantastic.”

Every shot requires six, eight, ten, twelve shutter flashes, then again from different angles and orientations using different lighting and slightly modified poses. His assistant actually busts out the measuring tape to tell Rachel where to put her limbs.

“Next costume. Back in five.”

Rachel reappears in a white camisole, a blue cotton shirt, blue jeans, and cowgirl boots that come up to her shins. Rachel standing up, Rachel lying down, Rachel looking coy, Rachel looking vulnerable. Four costumes, three hours, two bottles, and one sketch later, she’s finally done.

“What did you think?” Rachel asks.

“I was about to fall asleep. What are you modeling for, anyways?”

“Hand soap.”

She shows me a magazine advertisement: a cowboy and a farm girl touch noses and hips in a straw-floored stable with horses watching. _He used to keep one hand soft for her. Now, he can take care of business all day and all night long._

“Sounds like a winner to me,” I say.

“Different setups for different demographics. This one is for a men’s magazine.”

“Obviously. What’s in the soap that makes it so soft?”

“It’s a byproduct of sake fermentation. Victoria’s family has a pretty big investment in it.”

“Should I be thanking Victoria?”

“I’ll do that for you. We can do some shots later, if you want.”

“Not really my thing, but thanks. Are you feeling okay? You look like a bed sheet.”

“I just need to rest, that’s all. But first, dinner.”

Our path to Rachel’s Malibu is blocked by a black Bentley whose owner is probably so loaded he just parks however the fuck he wants and pays his tickets in monthly batches. A guy in sunglasses and a dark blue suit jacket peers into the windows of Rachel’s car. He puts his hands up when he sees us.

“I was just looking for a friend of mine. Clearly, I have the wrong car. Sorry about that.”

Rachel has her shades on well before we leave the parking ramp’s dim interior. She puts the back of her hand up to her forehead.

“Even the thieves in L.A. are well-dressed,” I say.

“Probably just a talent agent scouting me out. Although I’m not sure what _Men’s Fashion_ would want with me.”

“More like _Hipster Monthly_.”

Rachel drives us down the main strip so we can soak in the sights: windowed shopping centers, stars on the sidewalk, a neon-lit soda fountain.

“Let’s grab sodas there,” I say. “Maybe they have food, too. Are you sure you’re okay? Your cheekbones are sticking out of your face and you look like you’re burning up.”

“I just get hot flashes sometimes, that’s all.”

I open up the double doors for Rachel, then wait for her to do the same and end up swinging the door back open with my foot as I follow her into the restaurant. My eyes stop at the first thing on the menu: monster burgers and chocolate milkshakes. Rachel doesn’t object, just closes her eyes and rests. I’m expecting thick slabs of meat between fluffy buns—ten minutes later, burgers the size of manhole covers appear on huge, white plates.

“Dude, this is awesome,” I say as I unwrap the silverware I’m probably not going to use. “Should I make an eating challenge out of this?”

She opens her eyes.

“Please don’t. Those face-stuffing contests are absolutely disgusting. Might I suggest a knife and fork, my darling elf barbarian?”

Rachel cuts pint-sized triangles out of her burger before sliding them off her fork with her teeth. I wish I had bigger hands so I could eat this thing without having half the lettuce and tomatoes fall out the back of it onto my plate.

“You should take a picture,” I say. “This is some serious food.”

“It beats eating ice cream off a tablecloth,” Rachel says. She takes another bird-sized bite of burger.

“What?”

“My dad took us to an upscale restaurant once: one Michelin star, authentic Rembrandt pieces on the walls, restrooms with attendants and hanging toilet paper folded into origami cranes—the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re inconveniencing them by actually using what you paid for. After our three-course meal, they brought out a giant platter of ice cream. Instead of setting it on the table, the chefs put scoops of grade A, organic, certified Belgian cream down on the tablecloth, swirled butterscotch and chocolate in artistic patterns, topped it all off with cherries, and wished us _bon appétit_.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. After that, they probably went back into the kitchen and laughed their asses off at the idiots that just paid them half a grand to eat off the table.”

“Who the hell pays for that?” I say.

“People with more money than sense. At least here you get your money’s worth. Well, you do, anyways. I’m probably going to need a take-home box.”

“You ate, like, three bites.”

“That’s probably as much as a normal hamburger.”

The waitress brings over a pair of styrofoam boxes.

“I overheard your conversation,” she says. “I have to warn you—these don’t reheat very well.”

“That’s okay. I got what I wanted.” Rachel hands the waitress a hundred. “Keep the change.”

The waitress hugs her.

“You’re an angel,” she says.

I keep working at my burger and only stop when Rachel’s nose turns into a leaking faucet that drips blood instead of water. I help her rip napkins out of the overstuffed dispenser. She holds them up to her nose.

“Just bunch them up into your nostrils,” I say.

“I don’t want people laughing at me.”

“Dude, who cares how you look? I’ll drive us back to the hotel.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I can handle myself, Chloe. We’ve been over this.”

“Over what? You said you need to rest.”

“Would you stop being dense? I know what you’re thinking.”

“You clearly don’t, because I don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“I haven’t been doing _that_.”

“Oh, that shit. I didn’t say you were, but now that you mention it, that would explain things.”

Rachel walks out of the restaurant. I follow. When I ask her for the car keys, she just gets in the car and starts it up. The tail lights come on. I stand behind the car. We stay like that, frozen in time, until another potential monster burger victim rolls into the parking lot looking for an empty spot and can’t find one.

Rachel’s shades are glued to the windshield as she drives us through intersection after intersection. She slows to a stop at a late-turning red light.

“I wish you would listen to me,” I say.

The light doesn’t stay red for very long. Rachel turns to me as if she’s going to say something and the front end of a garbage truck smashes out her window and caves in her door. Her shades flip down to her chin. She slumps over onto the steering wheel.

“Shit!”

A guy runs in front of the windshield, sees Rachel, gets on his phone.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.

I can’t hear Rachel breathing. I don’t hear the guy outside talking. The cars around me sit still. Are their engines running? My hands are here. So are my legs. My head is attached.

“What do I do?”

“Love until it hurts,” Dad says.

He sits in the back seat, but he’s a million miles away.

“It already hurts,” I say. “I want it to stop hurting.”

“It never stops hurting. You just have to learn to live with it.”

Dad’s gone.

“Or without it.”

I kiss Rachel on the temple and put my head up against hers.

Ambulance. Rachel. Bed. Equipment. Two men.

“You had the wind knocked out of you,” says a doctor. “You escaped with minor bruises for which you’ll need to take daily aspirin; fortunately, the automobile took the brunt of the collision. You should be out of here the day after tomorrow.”

I climb onto Rachel’s bed and hug her.

“Don’t tell my dad,” she says.

“You almost died and you’re worried about your father finding out.”

“We’ll have to use the money from Aunt Janice and most of what’s in my personal bank account.”

“From our escape fund. If that ever even happens, now.”

“Don’t talk like that, Chloe. Shit happens.”

“And every time shit happens, Chloe Price is there.”

I swivel in place and let my legs hang off the hospital bed.

“I wish we had never met,” I say.

Rachel sits up.

“You don’t mean that. I’m the one you should be blaming. Trust me, I blame myself. I was the one who threw the wine bottle at you. I made you sit at my bedside in the hospital for a week. I was the one who left you alone all summer long. But I’m an adult now. Things are different. And I swear to you, none of that will ever happen again, so long as I live.”

“That’s the problem.”

Rachel starts fumbling with the black bands of her black and blue baby bracelet. I stand up off the bed.

“I was never here,” I say.

Tears stream down Rachel’s face.

“Sometimes, I let things get away from me,” she says. “But I’ve always come back for them. I was there in Principal Wells’s office, at your mother’s wedding, when Frank had what you needed…when you played with Steph, when you did it again with Victoria, when you shot Nathan down, when you freaked Kate out. I’ve been there to support you no matter what. Does that mean _anything_ to you?”

I feel nothing.

“It hurts, Chloe. It really hurts.”

She stands up, ties her bracelet onto my wrist, links her fingers with mine.

“But you don’t walk away from eternity just because it hurts. Do you remember what the priest said at your mom’s wedding?”

“No.”

“’Til death do us part.” She runs her thumb over my tattoo’s skull. “Our bond goes beyond that. Not even death will keep me from you.”

She pulls me down onto the bed with her, puts my head on her chest, strokes my hair.

“Wherever you lay your head,” she says, “that’s my home.”

We’re out of there two days later with a month’s supply of aspirin and a thousand bucks. Rachel’s car was never hit by a garbage truck that didn’t run a red light.

“We’ll have to cut back on those hilarious souvenirs,” she says.

“Yeah, hilarious.”

We spend the rest of August meandering west of the Mississippi. Rachel and I do everything we talked about and then some. According to Rachel, the most amazing part of the entire trip is that my mouth doesn’t get us in trouble at all after we leave L.A. She changes her mind after we get intimate under the night sky in New Mexico in the back seat of her car with all the windows open.

“Best I’ve ever had,” Rachel says.

She takes a puff off my cigarette and coughs up her lungs. I laugh and show her how it’s done.

“Best ever?” I say.

“Yep. To be fair, I have nothing to compare it to.”

“I should have seen that one coming.”

She punches me in the arm.

We eat greasy diner food at a hole-in-the-wall in Oklahoma that’s somehow better than anything Mom’s ever made. Rachel can’t afford a Hollywood-sized tip, so she turns on the charm and it seems to work just as well as Benjamin Franklin did. Our asses freeze solid in a snow-ringed Colorado mountain town where gas is expensive and the rush of early autumn air feels like magic. All this time to explore the world and we choose to spend it in the most far-flung, time-forgotten places clearing our minds and chatting away happily about nothing at all.

We’re driving down an endless Nebraska highway between never-ending corn fields when Rachel’s dad calls.

“Just fine. We’re in the Midwest, checking out kitschy Americana…let me guess, another birthday present? That many? I’ll ask her right now.” Her phone goes between her legs. “He has something big waiting for me when I get home. You ready to go back to Arcadia Bay?”

I get pulled over in the middle of nowhere for exceeding a speed limit that wasn’t even posted. It’s twenty-five bucks for driving California-style in the middle of Nebraska. I think about offering him a hundred so I can speed through the rest of his state, but then I remember we don’t have that much. Also, that would probably cost me more than a hundred.

“You were doing so well,” says Rachel.

“It was the prospect of going back for another year that threw me. You really want to mooch off your dad for that long? I thought we were going to make our own way.”

“We are, once we graduate. For now, we should take these people for everything they’re worth. When we get back, I’m going to tell Dad you’re spending the night every night from now on. We’ll lock the door and make the most of my star globe.”

I light up a cigarette and turn around on our way to the interstate. The guy who gave us a ticket is still parked on the side of the road. Normally, I’d flip him off, but Rachel has a better idea—we lock lips as we drive past him. I keep my middle finger where he can’t see it.


	37. Chapter 37

When we roll up to Rachel’s house, my ass is sore, my back hurts, and my head is throbbing. I need six coffees and twelve cigarettes. Fortunately, there aren’t any vehicles in the driveway and the country club’s parking lot is empty, so we should have some time to relax before Rachel weaves a web of tales for the guy who…meets us at the front fucking door.

“Hi, James,” I say.

“Darling. Good to see you safe and sound. Please.”

He invites Rachel into her own house. As for me, the carpet on the floor is apparently more appealing than eye contact.

“Have a seat, Chloe,” I say. “Thank you, James.”

“I’ll be right back,” Rachel says.

She heads upstairs. I settle in for a wordless rap battle with James in which we very politely avoid looking at and dropping bombs on each other. Our grudge match is declared a draw when Rachel returns from the world’s shortest bathroom break.

“What are all those boxes outside my room?” she says.

“I took the liberty of doing some reorganizing while you were away,” James says.

“Is that my surprise?”

“Part of it.”

James spreads out a stack of birthday cards on the table. Rachel reads through each one of them aloud, laughing and smiling at their obnoxious but polite attempts at humor.

“Don’t these normally have something inside them?” she asks.

“I’ve also taken the liberty of depositing the money into your account,” says James.

“You did? I don’t see anything in my account.”

“It’s a trust fund. It unlocks when you’ve reached twenty-one years of age.”

“If it’s for my eighteenth birthday, shouldn’t I get it now?”

“I’m safeguarding it for you. I hope that when the time comes for you to utilize it, that you will possess the responsibility necessary to allocate it responsibly.”

I shake my head.

“Look who’s talking,” I say.

“You’ve changed considerably in these last two years,” James says to Rachel. “And not for the better. Some of these things can be attributed to the growing pains of maturation. Some of them, however, cannot.” He looks straight at me.

“I’m not following,” Rachel says.

“Even now, when I look at you, an image of Sera appears before me. When I look at the people with whom you’ve been associating, I see some of Sera’s associates. Slippery associates. People who open gates to places we should not go.”

“I haven’t been going to those places,” says Rachel.

“I know you’re doing drugs,” says James. His head swivels like an oscillating fan as he looks us over. “Both of you are, but only one of you is my responsibility.”

“Medical marijuana isn’t a drug,” I say.

Rachel sits down in the chair next to me in slow motion.

“It’s a gateway to other things,” says James.

“Right, just like diapers are a gateway to pants.”

“I doubt you would tell me about those things, given that you chose not to tell me about Rachel’s drug use previously.”

“Spoilers: she wasn’t doing drugs.”

“And yet I have evidence to the contrary: testimony from individuals at both Blackwell and the high school’s Learning Center; gas station receipts from your road trip to Los Angeles and Hollywood; an eyewitness account from a waitress who said Rachel was bleeding profusely from the nose and scarcely touched her food; the police report on the accident you two were involved in; and a fraud alert that was placed on the bank account from which you withdrew thousands of dollars all at once to pay Rachel’s hospital bills.”

“You’re not even on that account,” says Rachel.

“Someone in my position doesn’t have to be.”

Rachel slumps in her chair with her head down, her hair hanging over her legs.

“The time has come for me to stop indulging your childish whims.” James glances at me. “Know that I do not approve of the decisions you have made, nor do I approve of the company you keep.”

“Chloe has nothing to do with this.”

“Indeed. Only one of you was ever my responsibility; now that you are an adult, even that is no longer relevant. Your allowance is cut off. The Malibu is in my name. You no longer have permission to drive it.”

“What an excellent goddamn father,” I mutter.

“A father who tries and fails is better than no father at all,” says James.

“I won’t take that one personally,” Dad says.

“I can’t say the same.”

I stand up slowly, circle around to the back of the chair, lean my palms down onto the armrests, and try very hard not to launch it through the big-screen plasma TV on top of the entertainment center.

“You have an important decision to make,” says James. “You can continue to live here or you can continue your relationship with Chloe.”

Rachel lifts her head. Where I expect to see tears, I see my own face staring back at James. Rachel stands up and almost pulls my arm out of its socket. Her bracelet slides halfway down my arm.

“We’ll be together no matter what,” she says.

“It pains me to see you like this,” says James.

“Just like it pained you to see her hunched over in that chair,” I say. “Should we ask Sera where we’ve seen that before?”

“Tell me,” says Rachel. Spit flies out of her mouth. “Tell us, right now, in front of my dad and my mom hiding in the fucking kitchen. Tell us what this son of a bitch did.”

I look around the living room. Wood everywhere. If James were made of wood, he could open the front door with his nose from where he’s sitting.

“Your decisions have consequences, too,” I say to James. “The only mistake Rachel ever made was not burning down your goddamn house when she set the forest on fire after we caught you making out with Sera.”

James takes off his glasses and folds his hands. Rose finally emerges from the shadows of the kitchen.

“I can’t believe what I just heard,” she says. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, Rachel.”

“If you’re not even going to do anything, why are you even here?” Rachel says.

Rose looks at James as if waiting for a prompt as to what her next line in this play is. Turns out, she doesn’t have one. The blocky heels of her shoes click against the hardwood floor as she returns to her perch behind the stove.

“If you have all this evidence, why haven’t you taken down Frank?” I say. “Why would you let it go on for this long? Did you do this on purpose so you could kick your own daughter out of her house?”

James puts his glasses on and eyes me as you would a lioness from behind the safety of thick glass at a zoo.

“You will recall that Frank did time. With that said, there are certain individuals whose continued operation yields investigative benefits that are far greater than removing them from the general public. Moreover, this individual can make himself difficult to locate if he knows he’s being targeted.”

“How the hell can Frank possibly be useful? He’s drunk for most of his waking hours and everybody knows where to find him because he doesn’t know how to find a shower. You just follow the scent of man ass and stale beans. This guy gets to make bank while the kids at Blackwell dose the shit out of each other but Rachel is an asshole because you _suspect_ she’s doing something she went cold turkey on last year? You’re a fucking hypocrite, and trust me, I know a hypocrite when I see one: I have to live with one every single day.”

“Chloe, you are inexperienced and inconsiderate. I hope that some day this will change, and that when that day comes, Rachel will have long since moved on.”

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” Rachel says.

“You gave me no choice. How many opportunities did we give you to set things straight? How many times did I extend my hand to you, asking you to let me know what was going on so that I could do something about it? And every time, you lied to me. Those ninety days in the rehabilitation clinic last summer, our trips through the countryside after you had made a remarkable recovery…all meaningless. One year later, almost to the day, we’re right back where we started. Worse, I think.”

I exhale sharply. “If only we hadn’t dipped into all that money we’d been saving, everything would be just fine. All those uncashed checks worked out just fucking great for Sera, huh?”

“The checks you found when you entered my office study without my permission were a handful of many that had been sent over the years. Addicts will lie, cheat, and steal to get what they want. A brief moment of clarity is simply the calm in the midst of a raging tempest.”

“A year is more than a brief moment.”

“Chloe, you’re still young,” says James. “As such, you will believe a great many things that you are told without questioning them. Rachel’s confidence combined with her lack of life experience prevents her from admitting to herself and others that she has a problem.”

“I don’t have a problem.” It comes out of Rachel’s nose as a whine. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“I’ve funded your last year at Blackwell. Whatever remaining money you have in your bank account is what you’ll be living on. I have secured a dorm room for you as well.”

“You’re kicking me out?” Rachel’s voice rises sharply and breaks.

“Such habits are not welcome here. Unfortunately, those habits have found a home in my daughter. I cannot abide this. I’ve obtained permission from Principal Wells for you to move into the girls’ dormitory tomorrow notwithstanding the holiday. You won’t have the assistance of staff, but I’m sure Chloe’s lungs are more than up to the task.”

Rachel starts bawling. I can barely understand her between her sobs. She falls to the floor briefly, then pushes herself up. She breathes heavily through her nose.

“Our star has returned, James,” I say. “Will you have mercy and honor her last meal request? Has she earned the right to actually eat on the eve of her departure?”

“Perhaps you’d like to help her with her things before you _leave_ ,” says James.

“Let’s go, Chloe,” says Rachel. “Help me start our new life at Blackwell where this son of a bitch has no power over us. Or anyone else.”

“I think I should make a scene instead.”

“Do whatever you want. Let me know if I’m going to have to bail you out of jail.”

Rachel trudges up the stairs and out of sight.

“Do I need to call the police?” says James.

A loud _thunk_ comes from somewhere outside. It’s followed by another one, then several in a row.

“Maybe,” I say. “Sounds like someone’s robbing the place.”

James opens the double stained glass doors and steps out onto a plastic-perfect green lawn illuminated by high-powered floodlights. He ducks out of the way just in time to avoid taking a cardboard box right in the kisser. Smart girl, forgoing all that business of going up and down the stairs.

“Captain Allegra!” I call up the steps. “Permission to drop anchor on the big screen!”

“Permission granted!”

Not only do I possess the arm strength to pick up the recliner over my head, but the explosion of liquid crystal into the caved in paneling behind the television is more awesome than anything I could have imagined in the twenty different ways I threw the cozy chair through the TV in my head.


	38. Chapter 38

It’s mid-October and so far I’ve managed to lie low in Rachel’s dorm room two weekdays out of every five beginning at twelve o’clock when my Thursday-through-Friday “working internship” at the local supermarket starts. Turns out the general manager is a money-grubbing asshole who doesn’t care about whether I actually show up for my shift as long as I sign off on the papers that say he’s doing his job and give him a glowing review at the end of the semester so he can pocket my paychecks. I guess I’ll never understand how green paper with numbers on it turns some people into complete jerks.

“Chloe Price,” says Victoria as I stroll outside for a mandatory exercise break. “Rarely a pleasure. To what do I owe the…apathy of your presence?”

“They’re conducting a fire drill.”

“Must be all that smoking finally coming back to bite us in the hindquarters. I’m sure your stepfather will get a promotion out of this. What do they call it when you fail upwards?”

“Acting. You know, that stuff you do for your internship in the adult bookstore.”

“Internship? Heavens, no. We’ve just come back from a month in the field as part of the new photography program. It’s…well, it’s something I wouldn’t expect someone as _grounded_ as you are to appreciate. You know, I’m not being paid to serve as your therapist, but I suppose right now I have nothing better to do than to stand here and listen to you talk about your issues. You have a great deal to say on the subject, undoubtedly.”

“Actually, no. I was just wondering why you and Rachel hung out so much last year.”

“Do I detect jealousy? Fascinating. Well, you see, Rachel has class. Rachel has taste. Rachel hangs out with me. You see how those things are connected?”

“You see how my fist might connect with your face?”

“Fine. Just let it be known that Rachel and I spend so much time together because we have things in common. Class. Taste. Things that you do not acquire simply by hanging out with Rachel.”

“Then how did you _acquire_ them?”

“I was born with them, honey. And I think maybe you were born to serve as an example to people like Rachel of what they might become if they forget about those things. Now, excuse me while I…do anything else. Oh, and please cancel my subscription to your issues. Ciao ciao.”

Later that day when Rachel’s done with her classes, Victoria waits down the hall in her room with the door cracked open so she can pounce the millisecond she spots Rachel’s sheet-white face floating into view.

“No fucking way,” says Victoria. She pushes her door open and prances into the hallway. “Who did you piss off to get sentenced to this place?” She can barely contain the smile on her face as she files her nails just outside of bitch-slapping range. “And why haven’t we chatted yet? It’s been four whole weeks and zero texts.”

“Victoria. A pleasure.” Rachel manages a weak smile. “I’ve been as busy as you have, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, and we’re about to get busy right now if you don’t mind,” I say.

“Rachel, honey, would call off your guard dog, please? Where’s my hug?”

“I have something even better,” says Rachel. “We should talk about it in my room.”

“We should?” says Victoria.

“We should?” I say.

“We should,” says Rachel. “Chloe doesn’t mind.”

Victoria gives me a coy look, stops filing her nails, and follows Rachel into her room.

“That’s an awful lot of boxes,” Victoria says.

Rachel was so upset about getting kicked out that the only thing she could be bothered to unpack is the laptop on her desk. Even the walls are bare.

“I’m tossing this piece of shit chair in the garbage,” she says. “We’re buying a new one. New everything. I’m getting rid of everything that used to be in my bedroom and replacing it. I want to burn every memory I have of that house into ashes and stained glass fragments.”

“So what are we going to do with all these boxes?” I say. “Just toss them straight into the dumpster?”

“And set them on fire.”

“Okay. I’m cool with that.”

“A bonfire?” says Victoria. “Am I invited to this party?”

“You’re the guest of honor,” I say.

“Of course, Victoria,” says Rachel, “but I wouldn’t dream of stepping on the toes of this year’s Halloween party.”

Victoria claps her hands together like a little girl when Rachel presents her with a small, red envelope.

“The Vortex Club party this year is going to be the best yet,” says Victoria. “Of course you have to come. When did you plan on having your dumpster fire? I’m sorry, your _soirée_.”

“I was thinking next month before everyone leaves for the holidays, as a kind of a send-off. Maybe a harvest theme, with rum, wine, and beer to represent the colors of the falling leaves.”

“I am shocked, _shocked_ that you would suggest bringing alcohol to a party at Blackwell. Oh, who am I kidding? We’ll keep it under control this time.” Victoria sighs. “Well, I suppose I could make an appearance at your little shindig. As a favor. If you two behave, I might even make nice with your companion.”

I fling my beanie at Rachel’s face. She catches it before it hits the floor and puts in on her head. She looks better without it.

“Make nice?” says Rachel. “Isn’t that what you have Taylor and Courtney for? Or are you afraid we’ll attract attention from your boy toys?”

Rachel smiles at Victoria the way you would at a visiting uncle who just farted in the middle of a living room full of relatives and you’re pretending the smell doesn’t make you want to pass out on the carpet you just puked up your pumpkin pie on. Victoria frowns at Rachel the way you would if you were a complete fucking bitch.

“Listen, slut,” says Victoria with a smile on her face. “You already have a lap dog. Leave some for the rest of us, okay?”

“I have been,” says Rachel. “It’s not my fault they’re not all over you. Maybe you need to figure out what it is about your legs that keeps scaring them away.”

“Probably the fact that they’re not up in the air all the time?”

Victoria puts one hand on her hip. Her smile has disappeared. She wears a silver-linked watch that reflects the blind-filtered sunlight straight at my nose. She notices this and angles the watch face toward my eyes. I have to turn away.

“Maybe if they were bent at the knees you’d have better luck,” says Rachel with a raspy voice.

“I see now how you got the holes in your jeans,” Victoria says. “Ever think of getting a real wardrobe instead of wearing tent fabric and flannel all the time?”

“Is this what a cat fight looks like?” I ask.

“No,” says Rachel. “This is foreplay.”

“Oh, please,” says Victoria. She swats at the air with one hand, takes a huge phone out of her pocket, and starts tapping away with her thumbs. “I don’t have the patience to keep the lower ranks in order today. Just make sure you slum it with your village girl before you show up to our bash so we don’t have to deal with your peasant pageantry.”

There’s a knock at the door—two girls I don’t recognize appear when Victoria opens it.

“Taylor, I want you to start looking at decoration designs for a Fall harvest-themed party. Courtney, you start making up the guest list and assigning shopping duties. Make sure to include some of this year’s novices—the ones that aren’t on our shit list. Oh, and get some collars for yourselves, the kind that kittens wear, but in human size.”

Taylor and Courtney look at each other.

“Shoo,” says Victoria with a flip of her wrist. Courtney and Taylor vanish. Victoria rounds on Rachel. “Well, bitch, I hope impressing your strumpet was worth it. I’ll be in my room, cleaning up whatever mess Taylor and Courtney are busy making. They’ll be at the party with bells on. Literally. If you want access to the VIP, you’ll have to apologize.”

“How do you keep someone out of the VIP at her own party?” I ask.

“I swear to God, Rachel.”

“I’m sorry, Victoria. I really am.”

“I’m not feeling the sincerity. Why don’t you recreate your ad lib from _The Tempest_? I’m sure Chloe can remind you if you’ve forgotten.”

“Listen, _Chase_ ,” I say. “My fingers are getting twitchy.”

“So go rub one out. Rachel will still be here when you get back, no worse for wear.”

“What did you just say?”

Rachel makes a production out of getting down onto one knee and taking Victoria’s hand in hers.

“O, Divine Victoria, I beseech thee…”

And then she bows all the way down to the floor and kisses Victoria’s goddamn feet.

“All is forgiven, my child,” Victoria says.

She places her free hand on Rachel’s head and closes her eyes. Then, she claps her hands, does a half-pirouette on the heel of her pink dress shoe, and raises a bangled wrist. A sudden draft of autumn wind slams the door shut behind her. My beanie flies up to the ceiling and lands on a stack of cardboard boxes.

“What in the ever-loving motherfucking horse-dicking shit was that about?”

“Victoria’s a bitch.”

She picks up my beanie and tosses it to me before sitting down.

“No shit?” I say. “I thought maybe there was some deeper philosophical meaning behind it.”

“We need her to get out of here.”

And here’s Victoria and her posse filing into Rachel’s room without even knocking. The girl with the straight-as-fuck blond hair holds Rachel’s door open.

“Again for the groundlings,” Victoria says. “They won’t tell anyone what they’ve seen.”

“What are we watching?” asks Thing Two.

She wears a toothpaste white shirt with thin, horizontal brown stripes that make her raven-colored hair look even darker.

“A private performance, my dear Courtney,” says Victoria. “Would you be so kind, Rachel?”

“Well…”

Victoria closes her eyes and jerks her head to the left. The back of my left hand stings. Taylor covers her mouth with one hand. Courtney hides behind Victoria. Victoria sets her jaw and glares at Rachel. Rachel gets up from her chair, faces me, and puts her arms around mine. She clasps her hands behind my back.

“You provoked her,” says Rachel. “I can’t be held responsible. I gave you what you asked for. You took it too far.”

“You’d better have cash,” says Victoria.

“It’s probably better that way,” says Rachel.

Victoria rounds on her lackeys.

“What the fuck are you staring at?”

Courtney and Taylor run down the hallway. Victoria stalks off after them. Another breeze blows through the room.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” says Rachel.

“And you shouldn’t have been a little bitch when confronted by a big bitch. You’re taking this acting shit way too far.”

“You don’t need to fight to the death for everything you want.”

Rachel releases me and shoves me in the chest hard enough that I have to sit down on her bed.

“I’d like to be alone now,” she says.

“Fine.”

I thumb through magazine photos from the latest Pisshead concert. Skip looks totally different: long hair, tats, mustache, and a sick-looking motorcycle. Rachel clears her throat.

“I said I’d like to be alone.”

“Oh. Well, shit. You’re talking to an expert on the subject. I’ll let you be so you can kiss and make up with Victoria. I’m gonna go find Nathan and pretend to be his sister. _Ciao ciao._ ”

The door locks as soon as it closes. I stand there, stunned. For the hell of it, I decide to stop by Victoria’s room and bang on the wall so she can actually hear me over her shitty bubblegum pop music. Her face is strangely placid when she answers.

“Rachel hits like a girl,” I say. “Try not pull her hair too hard, though.”

Victoria rolls her eyes and slams the door in my face. I was hoping for a broken nose, but all I got was proof that reality exists and it sucks a fat one.


	39. Chapter 39

_The Beginning of the End_ is still hanging up all over the place on posters, banners, flyers, and even stylized erasable marker graffiti on the dormitory walls. Most people have already left for Thanksgiving because who wants to be doing homework when you have an excuse to fuck off? Well, it turns out quite a few people are willing to stick around for loud music and “energy” drinks, the kind of drinks that inspire people to put way too much energy into vampire-sucking each other’s faces before removing their jeans and passing on their genes. When Mom told my seven year-old self I was conceived to a song called _Dancing Queen_ and then made me listen to it, I told her I wished that I had been born without eardrums and promptly wandered off into the kitchen where I fully intended to bang a wooden spatula against the pot on my head until she stopped talking. Instead, I stopped talking and hearing for the next five minutes after Mom slammed my pot-head with a meat tenderizer as hard as she could. Later, she told me she had only used half her strength because if she had gone all out, she would have put a dent in my brain and I already had enough of those as it is.

“So, what am I, your goalie?” I ask Rachel.

“Just be there for me,” says Rachel through the bathroom stall partition. We’re flushing toxins from our bodies to make room for more toxins. “Look out for me. That’s what girlfriends do when they’re not backhanding my classmates.”

_Flush._

Rachel frowns at me in the mirror as she adjusts her feather earring. Of all the things that have changed about her over the last two and a half years, the one thing that’s stayed the same is her sense of style.

“So what happens if some dude is all over you and won’t back off?” I say.

Rachel bunches up my Illuminati t-shirt in both of her fists.

“Then you forget about your hands and use your second greatest strength: your mouth.”

She shows me exactly what she means.

An hour later, the TV lounge revolves around a pale, skinny blonde, resident queen of dancing and acting and modeling, covered in a thin layer of sweat and swaying her body and arms and legs and hips back and forth in a way that flushes my face and makes my pelvis feel alive. A steady supply of booze makes a great number of things irrelevant, and as long as nobody straight up dies at these parties, Principal Wells and the powers that be will just sit around banging wooden spatulas against the pots on their heads while we drink ourselves into oblivion.

“Vortex Club. Cool name, huh?”

Some random dude with ten armbands, seven popped collars, and a backwards baseball hat looks me over with the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s just chugged his way through a horse-shitty case of buffalo piss beer in record time. When Rachel’s done scrubbing my teeth with her tongue, I wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist.

“Who the fuck invited these people?” I ask.

“Who cares? This party is awesome.”

“You’re burning up. Let’s go outside.”

“It’s just the vodka warming me up. Besides, your step-dork is outside waiting to bust anyone who leaves. Especially the guys, since they aren’t supposed to be on our floor.”

“When has anyone ever cared about that? And I’m pretty sure I saw posters all over campus advertising _The Beginning of the End_ for like three weeks straight. Did David not get the memo?”

Rachel shrugs. “You want to go spy on him?”

“Why the hell not?”

Rachel takes me through the wide-open door of the room across the hall from hers—it belongs to a girl named Kelly who sits on her bed, drinking from a plastic cup and talking to other girls also drinking from plastic cups. Kelly ignores us as we walk up to her window. There, underneath one of the lampposts swarming with nighttime butterflies, stands a dark blue statue with its arms crossed.

“Damn,” I say. “He’s not moving a muscle. Not even twitching a butt cheek.”

“He’s probably thinking to himself, ‘I wish someone would walk by with a stick and scratch my butt cheek for me.’ Oh, it’s refill time. You want one?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’m gonna stand here and watch the butterflies. They look wicked.”

Rachel returns five minutes later with two plastic cups. She looks like she’s trying to rub her nose off her face as she hands me my poison.

“Have a chair,” she says. “I’ll perch in your lap like a calico cat and do all the talking and meowing. You just sit here and look pretty.”

She pulls me down onto the chair at Kelly’s desk, then plants her ass sideways right on top of my thighs. Out of nowhere, Victoria’s all up in her face, having an animated conversation about a bunch of shit I don’t care about.

“You know, Chloe,” she says, “if I weren’t high right now I wouldn’t even be talking to you.”

Victoria gives me a solitary finger gun, then staggers backwards into some girl who apologizes to Victoria profusely.

“Victoria,” says Rachel. “That’s mean. You should apologize.”

Before I can say anything, Victoria’s wide-open eyes are staring at my cheeks as her lips glue themselves to mine. I get a face full of vodka-infused strawberries, pomegranates, blueberries, and ten other fruits I don’t want to know about. And then, while I’m still trying to figure out what just happened, Victoria resumes her conversation like nothing ever happened.

“I have no idea what the fuck is going on,” I say.

“It’s probably for the best,” says Rachel.

“Speaking of the best, have you heard about the new photography instructor?” says Victoria. “He finally started teaching. It’s a shame the seniors only get a year with him. They’re trying to convince the big guns at Blackwell to add a post-secondary option. Oh, shit, I almost forgot. I came in here to get that group snapshot with you. Come along, Prospera.” She takes Rachel’s hand. “Your stage awaits.”

“I’ll be back,” says Rachel. “Family portrait.”

I wander back over to Kelly’s window to stare at David with the kind of fascination you’d reserve for a million year-old moth encased in amber. When my mind regains control of my body, I turn around and there’s Rachel on Kelly’s bed, chatting with the girls in her bra and underwear like they’re all doing a photo shoot for a lingerie catalog.

“You know Victoria paid Dana Ward’s latest boyfriend to break up with her?” Rachel says.

“Say what?”

“Yep. All the money in the world and she’s jealous of some small-town cheerleader.”

Rachel’s hand shakes as she brings her cup up to her face. Her eyeballs disappear. Her eyelids flutter. She collapses into Kelly’s lap. Her cup spills out onto the bed. Kelly just stares at her.

“What’s going on?” Kelly says. “She feels like she’s vibrating.”

Rachel’s body convulses in wild spams on a stretcher. Our ambulance does drifting turns through city streets all the way to the hospital, where EMTs send me and Rachel down separate slides: she goes to the emergency room, I go to the waiting room. A doctor wearing bloodied surgical gloves tells me Miss Leo has used up all of her lives. As they wheel her funeral bed past me, I reach out my hand to her—time reverses, sending me back through the hospital entrance, the ambulance, the front doors to the dormitories, to Kelly’s bed. I climb through the first floor window and tell David everything. Thirty seconds later, black helicopters descend over the dormitory courtyard. Men in black suits and helmets rappel down ropes and smash their way through windows. A row of sad-looking students in handcuffs and ankle shackles marches out of the dormitories under the watchful eye of police officers and FBI agents. Victoria spits at my feet. Rachel picks up the ball and chain clasped around her ankle with a pair of chalk-colored pipe cleaner arms.

“And now I have a gift for you,” she says.

She shoves the steel sphere into my chest so hard it cracks my ribs.

The room comes into focus. Rachel’s head is in Kelly’s lap. Kelly strokes Rachel’s hair as she sips from her cup and talks to the three friends that haven’t taken their party somewhere else. If this party with Rachel is fated to come to an end, we’ll do it together, at home, the place where I lay my head.

“Kelly,” I say. She looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you run into the TV lounge and flash your tits.”

“Okay.”

She blows through her open door at Mach Ten. When I hear a loud chorus of cheers from outside, that’s my cue to fireman carry Rachel’s skeleton frame across the hall into her room and out the window. It takes me ten minutes to get to my truck without being seen by Deputy Asshole. I drive out of the parking lot at a slow crawl, trying my best not to wrap my piece of shit around a telephone pole. It would be easier if these streetlights would stay still and weren’t so fucking bright. It takes all of my strength to haul Rachel’s limp body up the stairs to my room. When we get there, I’m too tired to drink myself into oblivion, so I join Rachel in whatever dream world she’s decided to throw her life into.

I wake up shivering. My window is open. While I fumble for a cigarette to warm myself up, Rachel crawls in through the window, pale as the thin layer of snow covering the city. She sits down on the floor with her hands resting on her ankles.

“What’s up, ghost?” I say.

“Nothing,” says Rachel. “That’s how much money we have left.”

“It wasn’t much to begin with.”

“I could have made fifty grand last longer than that.”

_My brain explodes. I pick up the pieces and pack them into moving boxes. Mom did tell me to clean up my room, after all. Max hands me a huge chunk of my corpus callosum, veins still pulsing, images of bottles and cigarettes and razor blades and fine white powder dancing across the slick surface of the thick, wavy noodles writhing in her unblemished hands._

I exhale smoke at the stain up on the ceiling. Never did bother to scrub that clean.

“I have something to tell you,” she says.

“Fuck money.”

“I need you to listen, Chloe.”

“I have been listening. I paid attention to every single excruciating detail. That’s why you’re here instead of the hospital or detox or somewhere else.”

“I didn’t spend all the money on coke.”

“No, just most of it. Enough to buy a car—two cars—or put a down payment on a house.”

“Do you even remember how much of it I spent on you?”

“I haven’t been keeping a running total.”

“A lot. You don’t need a calculator to know that I’ve been taking care of you.”

“And look where all that money got us.”

She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

“Can you get David off my ass?” she says.

“I just did.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You didn’t mean to thank me.”

“He’s been following me around at Blackwell, taking pictures.”

“Gosh, that doesn’t sound like him.”

“He doesn’t do it to anyone else.”

“Dude, I don’t even know how to get David off _my_ ass, let alone someone else’s. Let me know when you figure it out.”

“Fuck,” says Rachel. She puts her hands up to her face and slides them down her cheeks. “I might not be around long enough for that to happen.”

“Because you’re leaving.”

Rachel make a noise, shakes her head, lets her face drop down onto the flesh of one bended knee. She lifts her head and takes a ragged breath in through her nose with her mouth open.

“How fucking stupid _are_ you? You know, I’ve been asking myself lately: do I really need Chloe Price’s dead weight hanging off my neck?”

My cigarette burns my fingers. I flick it out the window. If I’m lucky, it’ll land in a barrel drum.

“So what do you want?” I ask.

She stands up. The slush from the shoes she never took off has melted all over my floor.

“I want an atomic clue bomb to crater your fucking brain.”

“Look who’s talking.”

I unsnap the black clasps of her baby bracelet and toss it at her. She catches it, slamming her closed knuckles against her chest with a _thump_ that hits me like a train.

“I won’t be back,” she says.

I walk straight into the garage and climb up to the top of the cabinets in David’s man-cave where he keeps a fully stocked supply of booze I never see him drink. A bottle of liquid shit with a turkey on the label goes into my pocket. I think about smashing it against the windshield of that snot-green muscle car he has up on cinder blocks, but that would be overkill.

I throw myself onto the living room couch, twist the cap off the plastic bottle, and gulp a triple shot down the hatch. I almost cough it up. This shit burns like hell as it goes down, but I don’t care. Mom wanders into the kitchen, turns on the radio, and dances with herself behind the dining room table. I go to take another gulp, but my stomach tells me we should probably puke up this oak tree in my throat first. I tell my stomach to shut the fuck up because we’re drinking until I can’t feel feelings.

“Slow down,” says Mom.

She takes the bottle of turkey piss from my lap and replaces it with an open bottle of beer. It feels like an icicle in my hand. I slam half the bottle before Mom grabs my wrist.

“Why was Dad so perfect?” I say.

“He wasn’t.”

Mom sits down on the couch, pulls my head down into her lap, and strokes my hair.

“When I first met your father, I thought he was flawless, that he could never do anything wrong. I eventually learned what his faults were—he always tried to see the good in people, which meant some people would take advantage of him, like salesmen, and I’d have to step in before your father spent money on some household item we could use but didn’t really need. When I was pregnant with you, you kicked up a storm every single day. Some nights I didn’t get any sleep because you wouldn’t stop moving. I was so frustrated that I started fights with your father: I yelled at him, threw things, stomped around the house. Then, one day, I told him I was leaving forever. I walked out the door with a suitcase in my hand.”

“What happened?”

“I spent three days at my mother’s house. The change of environment must have pacified you. I got some rest, for once. I thought about things. Then, I came back. We talked. William apologized, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. I apologized, because I knew that I didn’t really feel that way—there was something else that was causing me to act like that. We made it through another month and a half of your antics. And then, you were born.”

“Did you ever think that maybe he was too good for you? Like ‘love’ wasn’t the right word to describe it?”

“Sometimes I would ask myself why he picked me, of all people, to share his life. In my darkest hours, after your father passed, I asked myself why I had been chosen to endure so much suffering. In time, I came to realize that love and life don’t make decisions. They simply are. Whether you accept them or not is up to you.”

“So if I accept that my life is covered in shit, how does that solve my problems?”

“It doesn’t solve anything. It just helps you realize that you don’t have to call yourself shit just because you’re covered in it.”

“That makes sense. It doesn’t really help, but now I have something to think about other than killing myself.”

Mom sighs.

“It would be a shame to leave this world without sharing your gifts with others.”

“Nobody will miss something that never existed.”

I stare out at vast stretches of grey sky through the splatter painting of rain drops plastered against the dining room window. There’s an emptiness out there that creeps into my soul and consumes me. The crushing weight of this nothingness, this uncertainty, is more oppressive than any actual, tangible place I’ve ever not wanted to be in my life.


	40. Chapter 40

Dear Max,

It’s been a while. How’s life? I’m awesome, thanks for asking. Rachel just broke my heart into a thousand pieces, but otherwise, I’m swell.

I sat up at the lighthouse today on Christmas Eve and thought about you because I didn’t have anything or anyone else to occupy my mind. Sorry. I hope you don’t think of yourself as second place or some stupid shit like that. Then again, you’ll never read this and you’ve completely forgotten about me, so I guess I shouldn’t be thinking of myself as second place, either.

What comes after last place? Because that’s where I’m at right now.

I remember the first time I wrote to you about Rachel—I was so fucking head over heels that I couldn’t contain myself. I was hoping I would find out something horrible about her, like a hidden passion for kitten memes, so that I would have an excuse to run away from her. Well, it turns out that she does like watching cat videos, but that’s the least horrible thing about her. She’s spent her entire life savings on snorting white powder up her nose so she can get high and network with Blackwell’s elite. She’s says it’s an investment in her future but I know she’s full of shit. If the junior valedictorian sinks fifty grand into building up a web of contacts for a career in modeling and acting and all she has to show for it is a bloody nose, how much of a fucking genius is she, really?

Sorry, Max. I shouldn’t be bothering you with any of this. You’re too…Max for that. I try to think of you in the same room with any of those people and my head explodes before my brain even starts loading up images.

Life was a lot simpler when we were baking in the kitchen and digging up time capsules in the back yard and I was drawing on my art pad on the couch while you sat next to me (well, under my legs) and stared at the walls thinking about whatever goes on in that head of yours. Probably dreaming up some silly story about the squirrel king hiding a secret cache of acorns in his tree and defending them from the neighboring woodpecker tribe. “Keep your filthy beaks off my nuts!” he’d say. Except he probably wouldn’t say that because your writing has always set the standard for being family-friendly. I always liked reading your stories whenever you weren’t looking. And there you have it: Chloe’s deepest, darkest secret is that she enjoys reading Max’s nonsensical tales about chipmunks and woodpeckers and squirrels and rabbits. Nobody wants to read a story about the boring, everyday stuff that happens in real life, but as soon as you give animals the ability to walk upright and talk and you have them doing all sorts of stuff that would never actually happen, you’ve made magic.

Did you know you were a magician, Max? And you didn’t even need to buy a box of magic tricks. Just a pencil and some paper.

Despite my magical abilities, I still haven’t been able to make David disappear. He sticks around like glue—super-glue, to be exact. No matter how many times Mom tells me he’s supposed to be one of us, I just don’t believe it. He even gave me a birthday card thanking me for letting him into the family. In Chloe’s Mystery House, the door that invites him into the family actually leads to the backyard. From the attic. With no stairs. And for my next trick, ladies and gentlemen, I will pretend to give a shit when I see David’s tangled pretzel heap of limbs on the ground. Welcome to the family!

Speaking of families, I hope yours is doing well. Seattle must be a better place for you guys since you’re still up there and I haven’t heard from you in for-fucking-ever. Not that I’m complaining—well, okay, I am—but I suppose you have your life to live. And I have my shitty, shitty life to live, too, a life with half a family and no friends to speak of. The one girlfriend I did have has now moved on to bigger and better things. Who needs intimate companionship when you have a plastic straw and a mountain of fucking snow on your dorm room desk?

Sorry. You don’t deserve that. Is it sad that you stopped existing a couple of years ago and yet I’d still rather talk to you than Rachel?

In the end, she’s the one who ran away from me. I don’t think I was good enough for her. I never did understand the concept of being “good enough” when it comes to love and friendship, like being buds with someone is a competition where you constantly have to prove yourselves to each other. Can’t we just chill and drink soda and watch anime or play some of those nerdy multi-player games you used to disappear into? Apparently not: in small-town Arcadia Bay, game plays you.

I think the only thing worse than having to grow up in this place is having to grow up at all. Alone.

Chloe the Inconsolable


	41. Chapter 41

“Bullshit,” I say. “There’s no way Rachel would ever hook up with Frank.”

If Taylor hadn’t brought up the subject of Rachel—usually one of my favorite topics, but not so much lately—I don’t think I’d even be talking to her. In fact, I would have ignored her seventh grade taunts from her usual spot beneath the oak tree outside the dormitories if she hadn’t known exactly what to say to me to piss me off. She probably had her overlord Victoria coach her on what to say and how to say it. It makes me wonder why Victoria isn’t here to talk shit to me in person.

“Victoria can’t be bothered dealing with lesser life forms,” says Taylor. She doesn’t even take out her earbuds.

“And yet she hangs out with you,” I say.

“Seriously, whatever. Victoria knows Rachel goes and meets Frank out at his gross trailer.”

“So does half of Blackwell. That doesn’t mean Frank is banging everyone on campus.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah, no shit. Everyone goes to get their party favors and then they party. Including your puppet master.”

“Unlike you and the people you hang out with, Victoria doesn’t need to trawl through the gutter to have a good time.”

“Right, because drinking from plastic cups in the TV lounge of a dormitory and listening to shitty songs you hear on the radio all day is the fucking high life.”

“You wouldn’t know class if it walked up and smacked you across the face. Which it doesn’t, any more, because as I recall, you got kicked out of Blackwell.”

“I kicked myself out of Blackwell because I couldn’t stand all the fake-ass people here. But tell you what—why don’t you take me to school on what it’s like to be a Barbie doll? We’ll hang out at one of your dominatrix’s masquerade balls while you introduce me to all the plastic people in attendance. I’ll do blow and you can do blowjobs.”

“I don’t know about that, Chloe. I doubt there will be either of those things left over if _your_ dominatrix is in attendance.”

“She’s not my dominatrix. I don’t care what she does.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hit a sore spot? Is she not whipping you the way you like it any more?”

“Yeah, it’s getting old, just like this conversation.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from your mid-day existential crisis.”

I manage to make it to Rachel’s door without seeing anyone. I’m half-expecting Victoria to pop around the corner with her phone out. Nothing. I knock on Rachel’s door.

Also nothing.

I knock again. I don’t hear any movement inside, so I open it up: Rachel wearing white earphones, giving me the finger while she types on her laptop with her other hand.

“Honey, I’m home,” I say.

“Take your things and leave. I boxed them up for you.”

On the floor beneath a row of hanging clothes is a box with the word “CHLOE” written in red letters. I check the closet drawers to make sure I didn’t forget anything—every single one is filled with boxes full of prescription medications with names I’ve never heard of.

“Are you running a fucking pharmacy in here?” I ask.

“What business is it of yours? Stop being so nosy.”

Her room is still as bare as a prison cell.

“Did you rearrange the furniture in here?” I say.

“Inspiration and motivation aren’t exactly on the agenda, doubly so now that you’re here,” she says. “Who decorates a hotel room, anyways?”

“Exactly. You just take guys there to bang them for favors.”

Rachel rips her earphones out.

“Who told you that?”

“Taylor.”

“Bullshit. Taylor’s a brat. She’s also a virgin who defines her existence by her proximity to…people.” She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I don’t have sex with them.”

“So the tree outside that says, ‘Rachel owes me money, pay up bitch’ is a product of our academic community’s generosity? Did you get a grant from the Prescott Foundation to snort a black hole into your brain?”

“I do other things with them. For them.”

“Like the things we used to do.”

“We were together plenty of times.”

“Yeah, when you were either high or desperate. When I wouldn’t give it to you for free, you stole it. You had to pay to get fucked at rehab.”

“Are you high? Maybe you need rehab.”

“I would have to smoke a ton and a half of weed within fifteen minutes to overdose. You snorted too much coke twice and shit the bed.”

“It’s under control now that you’re not getting in the way.”

“Far be it from me to cock-block your blow sessions.”

She uncrosses her arms. Her Ice Queen face is in full effect.

“I lied. I got my V-card stamped by a guy.”

My knees buckle. I almost drop my box. An unseen hand grips my heart.

“Taylor told me a certain someone’s been taking care of you,” I say.

Something warm clasps my shoulder.

“What did you always say about people?” Dad says.

It’s written on my bedroom wall to remind me: everyone lies, no exceptions.

“Taylor spreads rumors for attention,” Rachel says.

_Rachel shoved the leather sheath into her waistband._

_“There’s always darkness in this world, Chloe, and it usually comes from people we thought we could trust.”_

My knees lock. My spine straightens. My hands are vice grips on the sides of my box. I return the frosty daggers in her eyes.

“So you said ‘yes’ to cheap action,” I say. “That’s awesome. If you’re lucky, maybe he’ll be a psycho stalker who writes fucked up love poems to you. Then you’ll have more lines than you know what to do with.”

Rachel’s face goes slack.

“He takes care of me,” she says.

“Yeah, I’m sure Frank takes real good care of you.”

“It’s not Frank. Why would you even mention that drunk loser?”

“Did I strike a nerve?”

“I’d rather die than touch that disgusting pig.”

“I was on my way to jump off the cliff at the Overlook. Maybe you should have done that the first time we were there.”

“Maybe I still can.”

“I have someone waiting on the other side. You?”

The color returns to Rachel’s face.

“Just you,” she says.

“Sounds like a shitty deal to me.”

“Okay. Just stop. You win.”

“I didn’t know conversations had winners and losers.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”

“Why are you telling me that I ‘won’, anyways?”

“I thought maybe it would put into perspective what you lost.”

“News flash: you’re the one who almost lost your life, dumbass.”

“Never would have happened if you had stepped in like I asked you to. You just stood by and watched it happen.”

“You’re insane.”

“Never would have happened.”

“You’re the stupidest fucking valedictorian in the history of Blackwell. ‘Hey, Chloe, you’re an asshole for not being able to predict the future and read my mind.’ Suddenly I don’t feel so bad about the way things worked out. Enjoy your fucking brain tumor or whatever that shit does to you.”

Rachel shoves her chair back with her legs, walks up to me, and puts her face right up in mine. I grab the back of her neck and kiss her as hard as I can. She grabs me by the throat and digs her nails into my skin. Our eyes stay open. The sound of our nose-breathing fills the room. When I let go, she backhands me hard enough that it stings.

“Fuck off, Victoria,” she says. She sits down at her laptop. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I called the office and told them I was sick.”

“Did they believe you?”

“They called my mom at the diner and she told them I was feeling depressed.”

“So you could come pick up your stuff?”

“No, because I was feeling depressed.”

“You should get out of here so it doesn’t get any worse.”

“I think I have a pretty good handle on it. Thanks, though. Ciao ciao, bitch.”

“Die in a fire, whore.”

Out in the hallway, I get a glimpse of Victoria before she slams her door shut.


	42. Chapter 42

I take a sip of my bottled lemonade, which the cat-eared hostess described as “lemonade with benefits” when she handed it to me. Lemonade doesn’t normally put a nice burn in your stomach and make your chest all warm and fuzzy. I guess when life gives you lemons, you use them to make moonshine and get hammered. At the very least, it makes it easier to endure all the inane conversations floating around the amateur artwork on display in Blackwell’s courtyard with the setting sun as a backdrop. Come to think of it, maybe this lemonade is how they managed to attract all these people who look a couple years too old to be attending this place. That, and they’ve got some weird, floodlight-illuminated, black and white poster-sized shots of young women wearing incredibly non-functional clothing posing beside some wacky post-modern art sculptures while pretending a giraffe is sniffing their asses.

Welcome to Blackwell’s “Spring into Spring Art Fair.” Whoever named this event is fired.

“Hey, Chloe,” says Steph right behind me.

“Oh, hey, Steph. I like your scarf. Goes with your windbreaker. You here for the show?”

“Thanks. I’m actually the organizer. I have some of my own fantasy-themed art on display.”

“I was just telling myself that you’re approximately twice as awesome as everyone else here. Even the name of the event doubles up.”

“Twice as awesome as Rachel?”

I finish off my lemonade. Never mind that I wasn’t even halfway done with it.

“Were you thinking about making a move?” I say.

“Not exactly. She’s been looking for you.”

“ _You_ didn’t have any trouble finding me. She must not be looking very hard.”

“That’s just what she told me. Want to see my creations?”

“Hell yes.”

Steph’s centerpiece is a majestic, air-brushed, swirling, green-eyed dragon shrouded in jade mist set on a backdrop of night stars. It bears Steph’s stylized signature in the bottom right corner.

“Holy shit.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she says. “You put enough time, effort, and love into something and eventually you can work magic.”

“How much is it?”

“A hundred.”

I take out my wallet and count out four twenties.

“Too rich for my blood,” I say.

“I’d give it to you, but I really need to save up for my move this summer.”

“You’re out of here? Where to?”

“Maine. Emily and I are going to attend university together. I can’t wait to meet her in person for the first time. You want to sit down?”

We straddle the picnic table bench facing each other. She keeps one eye on the crowd. Every now and then, someone gives her displays a once-over before smiling politely and moving on.

“We talk every day now, sometimes past midnight,” she says. “I lose sleep because of it, and I don’t even care.”

“Damn. What do you guys talk about?”

“Life, school, parents, hopes, dreams, everything and anything. We do it while we play our game together. It’s like what you and Mikey did when you played tabletop, except it’s online. As soon as I graduate, I’m moving from the northwest to the northeast. Emily says I’ll like it there. ‘East Coast is the Beast Coast.’”

“Oh my god. She must be a huge fucking nerd just like you.”

“That sounded like it was supposed to be a compliment. Thanks, Chloe.”

A blond-haired woman who looks like she’s old enough to be in college stops to look at Steph’s art. She asks Steph a couple of questions while I examine the backs of my hands.

“She was cute,” I say.

“She was,” says Steph. “You thinking of moving on from Rachel?”

“We were together for almost three years. How do you just up and move on from something like that?”

“Rachel’s probably thinking the exact same thing. I think if she were going to replace you, she would have done it by now. Hey, Rachel. How’s life?”

The slender fingers on my shoulders turn me into a glacier.

“Awesome!” she says. “How are people liking your artwork?”

“Not as much as some of the other pieces.”

“You like dragons, right, Chloe?” says Rachel.

“When they’re not immolating my corpse on my funeral pyre, I guess they’re all right.”

“We’ll take it,” says Rachel.

She slaps a hundred dollar bill down on the picnic table. Steph’s eyes and eyebrows are having a competition to see which one can wrestle their way off Steph’s face first.

“Are you sure about that?” Steph says. “You might need that for this summer.”

“So might you,” says Rachel. “Don’t worry. We can afford it.”

Steph looks at me. My hand takes the bill and puts it into Steph’s.

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you so much, Rachel. It’s yours.”

“Nice! We’ll put this up in Chloe’s room. She could use a bit of fantasy in the middle of all those band posters and edgy life wisdom quotes. Why you don’t take a break? Your legs look like they could use some exercise.”

“I’m not exactly kicking a lot of ass, here. I’ve been set up for two hours and you’re the first sale I’ve made. I suppose I could go for a stroll.”

“That lemonade just hit my bladder,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

When I head back toward the picnic table, Rachel is alone. Steph’s artwork is nowhere to be seen. I turn around and lose myself in the crowd. Rachel pops up in front of me and puts one hand right in the middle of my chest.

“You want to kiss me and strangle me at the same time, don’t you?” she says. Concessions stand breath mints hit me in the face. “Too bad you can only do one of them in public and not get in trouble for it. I’ll let you do the other later, in private. I promise.”

“Not worth the effort.”

“You know you want to.”

Her lips are almost on mine. The lemonade has me buzzing.

“But I don’t need to,” I say.

Her hand is on my jeans between my legs. My body doesn’t obey my commands to go to sleep. It hums into life with the same energy that kicked my ass at the Firewalk concert.

“I need you,” she says.

“And the way you tell me that is by fucking off for three months.”

I toss her arm away. Her hand snaps right back to where it was.

“I can help you,” she says. “Bring out your gifts.”

“I can bring out my own. But that shit doesn’t interest me any more.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Everyone at Blackwell already knows that.”

“Do you want me to make a scene?”

“Go ahead. I’m not in this play.”

“I’m lost at sea and rudderless, Chloe. I need my First Mate to guide me.”

“Maybe I should leave you to your dramatic agony.”

She puts her lips against mine and tries to part my mouth. I clench my teeth shut. Her eyes close, mine stay open. People stare. I stare back until they turn away. My jaw relaxes. My eyes close. Rachel’s breath fills my lungs. We sail away.

“You said anything,” I say. “You stop doing coke, you stop going to parties, you stop giving guys a ‘helping hand’.”

“Done. Will you stop smoking weed?”

“Handcuff yourself to me and I won’t need to.”

“Let’s go meet Steph in my room,” she says.

“What’s she doing in your room?”

“Decorating. I bought all of her stuff. Fifteen hundred should be enough to cover the cost of her trip.”

“That’s completely awesome that you did that, but how does that help us?”

“From now on, any money I get, I’m giving to you.”

“I guess that works.”

“Can we get some cake first? I need a sugar rush.”

I work my way through a slice of vanilla. Rachel inhales the first two triangles she sees.

“Nice,” I say.

She winks at me. Through me, rather. I turn around to see who she’s making eyes at.

“You are not talking to Victoria.”

Bitch rolls up in the most expensive business casual suit I have ever seen in my life. She doesn’t even look at me. I pull Rachel away.

“Rachel, dear,” says Victoria. “I have someone who wants to meet you.”

I look back at Victoria with my best death glare.

“The man responsible for all of the photos at today’s exhibition. He’s looking for new talent.”

Rachel stops. _Please_ , she mouths to me. Five minutes back together and she’s already busting out the Doe Eyes.

“Fine,” I say.

“Who is it?” says Rachel.

“You’ve seriously never met the photography instructor?” says Victoria. “Girl, he has been all around the world. The Pacific Northwest doesn’t even scratch the surface of his life experience. The fact that he’s even here is a testament to the magnanimity and philanthropy of the Prescott Foundation. How have you not heard of Mark Jefferson?”

“I clearly haven’t been meeting the right people. You should introduce me. I bet he could get me work. And I bet Mr. Jefferson’s talent scout would benefit from it.”

“Don’t I know it. Why don’t you come to my photography class on Monday? I’ll tell him you’d like to audit the course for a day, a week, the rest of the semester. Who cares? I’m sure he’ll understand when we tell him you’re interested in studying the equipment that’s going to be taking your pictures when you’re up on the runway. And the stage, for that matter.”

“I’d like to audit this course as well,” I say.

Victoria sucks in air through her teeth and balls up her fists in front of her like one of those toy boxing figures Max and I used to play with when we were kids.

“How can I say this nicely?” she says.

“Chloe can’t come,” says Rachel.

“Pretty much.”

“This is our big break,” Rachel whispers to me. “No extracurricular activities. You drop me off and pick me up. Cut class if you need to.”

“Is there something I haven’t been made privy to?” says Victoria. “I don’t recall this dynamic in your—”

“Personal, private relationship,” I say. “Rachel would love to audit your course with you and your incredibly professional professor.”

“Well, Rachel,” says Victoria. “You have your… _mistress’s_ approval. See you there?”

“Sounds like a date,” says Rachel. She turns to me and smiles. “This is a strictly business relationship. Nothing to worry about.”

We meet Steph on her way back from the dorms. Somewhere above us, there’s a popping sound like someone’s setting off firecrackers.

“Oh, shit!” says Rachel. “I totally forgot.”

“Forgot about what?” I say. “World War Three on campus?”

“Brooke went all out this time,” says Steph. “The fireworks show is scheduled to last fifteen minutes.”

“They’re making shit explode on purpose and the administration is cool with it? Fuck yes.”

Steph, Rachel, and I join the crowds of people standing on top of picnic tables to get a better view of the miniature fireworks going off above the football stadium across the street. Rachel elbows me. Her phone displays a picture of a middle-aged, long-haired blonde wearing a dark blue blazer, a white blouse, and a smile.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“Sera. She’s doing a lot better, now. She got a job in a counseling center. She’s helping people who went through the same things she did.”

“Must be nice for them.”

Out above the playing field, the fireworks are in full swing: massive Fourth of July-style color bombs big enough to light up all one hundred yards of the football field and the entire football team standing on it, holding up a huge banner that says “GO BIGFOOTS GO CLASS OF 2013.” I normally don’t give a fuck about school spirit, but these bottled spirits are also causing me to not give a fuck, and those two fucks cancel each other out, so this night-time orgasm of highly flammable materials is actually pretty fucking cool. I put my arm around Rachel, she puts her arm around me, and we look up toward the sky as Brooke unleashes the most explosions I’ve ever seen in one place at one time.

If I had a camera right now, I’d take a picture of this moment so I could travel back to it whenever I wanted.


	43. Chapter 43

When I get home, I smoke so much that I can almost forget that I had to meet Frank’s scruffy ass out in the middle of nowhere to pick up my stuff. I was supposed to meet Rachel at our not-so-secret junkyard hideaway, but delaying our rendezvous is a small price to pay to make sure I get my prescription filled after picking up my diploma yesterday from the Learning Center a month ahead of schedule. I’m sure Rachel will understand. She lasted all of three weeks before she caved in and picked up her habit again, which is a week and a half longer than I made it. At least she’s not operating any heavy machinery, so we should be good until her modeling career takes off. Supposed to be happening any day now. I thumb her picture on my phone and wait. It usually takes her four or five rings to—

“ _Chloe_ ,” she says loud enough to blow out my phone’s speaker. “Where were you?”

I pick my phone up off the mattress.

“Stop shouting. I can hear you just fine.”

“Are you sure you can hear me? Did you hear me when I said we were supposed to meet at the junkyard today? Where the fuck were you?”

“Calm down. I went to meet Frank for my celebratory greenery. I can meet you in about an hour.”

“Fuck!”

Something falls in the background.

“Is everything all right?”

“No, it’s not all right, Chloe. Everything’s not all right.”

“What’s wrong?”

“This is a major fucking snag in the plan, that’s what’s _wrong_.”

“Okay. What’s the snag and how do we fix it?”

“We don’t fix it.” A pause. “You remember that bag I brought over to your house? And then David showed up in the middle of his shift and got pissed at me? I moved it to the fridge in our house and now it’s gone.”

“Who the hell would have taken it? Nobody ever goes there.”

“Frank took it. It had to be him. You remember how he was always showing up at the junkyard out of nowhere? You said you met him today. He’s the only one who could have taken it. Did you tell him about it?”

“When have I ever told that shit bag anything? And why did you wait until today to pick it up?”

“It took time to locate interested parties. And most of the nosy people are away for the weekend.”

“What was in the bag that we needed?”

“High-end supplies to fund our move out of Arcadia Bay. I was going to give you the money for safekeeping. I was fucking serious, too. I was ready to to say fuck it all to make sure we could get out of here right after we graduate.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. You remember what happened to Drew North when he was selling _supplies_ , right?”

“The football player? I remember. He lived and left Arcadia Bay a couple months later. Just like we would have.”

“And you would have been okay with getting beaten up?”

“I took a knife, Chloe. I can handle it. Can I come over?”

“Those handcuffs didn’t stay on very long, did they?”

“What?” Her voice rises so fast it cracks. “How did you find out about that?”

“Uh, when I woke up that one time and you were gone? And then it happened ten times after that?”

“Oh. Oh, shit. You mean the handcuffs you said we would be wearing when we got back together. I know, Chloe. We’re almost through this. It’ll take me half an hour to walk to your house. And no, you are not coming to pick me up, _Spliff_.”

I’ve just planted my ass on the stairs to the foyer when Rachel enters and takes her shoes off. David comes stomping out of his hiding place wearing his work uniform.

“You have the audacity to show up here after what happened yesterday?” he says.

“Why aren’t you at work right now?” I say.

“She’s not welcome here.”

“Yeah, and neither are you, but you’re still fucking here.”

“Chloe, watch your language,” Mom says.

She pads into the foyer and puts her arm around Rachel’s shoulders. Rachel busies herself on her phone.

“David, that’s no way to act. That’s the third time this week you’ve come home while you’re on duty.”

“I will not tolerate that in my house,” he says.

“That?” I say. “She’s a person, not an object. Have some fucking decency. Or is that more than you can handle?”

“She _is_ welcome here,” says Mom, “and I will not have you behaving like this toward Chloe’s friends. You need to stop making assumptions about people based on your theories and conjectures and investigations.”

“I know you don’t like me,” says Rachel. “I’ll leave.”

“You’re staying for dinner,” says Mom. “You _are_ welcome here whether David thinks so or not.”

Rachel’s phone buzzes loud enough for everyone to hear.

“That was my dad,” she says. “He needs me at home.”

“Well, it was nice to see you again, Rachel,” says Mom. “I hope the next time we meet, it’ll be under more civil circumstances.”

David jerks forward and grunts. Mom’s hand goes from his back onto his shoulder, where it squeezes the shit out of his dark blue work shirt as she drags him into the dining room.

“I’ll drive you home,” I say.

“They’re bringing the Bentley to pick me up,” Rachel says. She’s holding her shoes instead of wearing them. “I’m going to meet them. You should come with me.”

“I have something in mind,” I say.

Rumor has it that Captain Asshat just got that promotion he’s been chasing. I slide my hand down the left pocket of my jeans to make sure my diploma is still there. Rachel frowns at me.

“He’s been spreading lies about me on campus. None of them are true and you know it.”

“I’m going to let him know exactly what’s going on. Trust me, it’ll be worth it. I’ll hook up with you later.”

“Really? Whose side are you on?”

“Yours.”

“Then let’s go.”

“I will. I have something I need to do first.”

“There’s no time for that. I need someone who’s there for me.”

“Dude…”

“I met someone who’s going to change my life,” Rachel says. “He’s coming to pick me up right now. You need to meet him so you can explain to him why doesn’t need to take care of me.”

“I do?”

Rachel crosses her arms and taps her foot.

“Are you with me or do I make my own way?”

“That’s not how it fucking works.”

Rachel shakes her head, slams the door against her forehead three times, and slams the door shut. I walk down the hallway as I ponder whether to pull my hair out or not. I pull up a chair at the dining room table and stare at David’s mustache. He stares right back at me.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, David,” Mom says. She puts a plate of food in front of him. “If you’re planning on taking some of this _back to work_ with you, you’ll need to serve yourself. I made enough for _four_ people, so go stuff your gullet.”

“This should be plenty,” he says.

“I’ve heard the stories about the way you’re treating those kids,” Mom says. Food appears in front of me. “And not just Rachel. What happened to the man I married, the gentleman I met one fine afternoon who showed me the kind of courtesy that swings through that diner every once in a blue moon?”

“That man is doing what’s right. Someone has to.”

David takes a laminated card out of his shirt pocket and slaps it down on the table facing me.

“Head of Security,” he says. “I’ve been running the show for ten days and I’m already getting grief about doing my job the way I’m supposed to. But I’m used to it. That was standard operating procedure when I was in the Army. This doesn’t even bother me.”

Mom tosses her potholder towel onto the table.

“Ten days and you didn’t tell me?” she says. “David, what in the world is going on with you?”

“Weren’t they down to like three security guards, anyways?” I say. “Congrats on being the cream of the crap.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” says David. “But I do expect you to be on your best behavior from now on whenever you’re at Blackwell. I’ve been overlooking the regulations on co-habitation up to this point, but from here on out, you’re going to have to follow the handbook when it comes to spending time in Rachel’s dormitory room. You’re not permitted to store personal possessions in her living space beyond toiletries and cosmetics, you may not spend more than two consecutive nights in her room in any given week, and you are required to observe the legal curfew beginning at ten fifteen PM nightly, regardless of age.”

I stab a knife into my steak. My plate slides across the table. David’s hands are on it.

“Things are going to change from this point forward,” David says. “You’re a year shy of twenty but you’re still acting like a teenager. As long you live in this house, you’re going to follow the rules of this house. That means no more disrespect, no more lying around—”

“She’s still in school,” says Mom.

“Not any more,” I say.

I pull my diploma out of my pocket and unfold it with tender loving care before slapping it down right on top of David’s ID badge. Mom murmurs the words as she reads it.

“Congratulations,” she says.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m glad someone appreciates me.”

“A year later than your peers and you call that early?” says David.

“ _David_ ,” says Mom. “That was uncalled for.”

“You did what you were supposed to,” David says. “For once. But do you have a job lined up, Chloe? A savings account to fund your own apartment? Plans for college?”

“I’m living with Rachel. We’re moving to California.”

“The only thing Rachel is living with is a habit. And that habit is rubbing off on you.”

“Rachel’s the only thing left in my life that’s worth a damn. You know nothing about her.”

“I know that since she’s moved onto campus, recreational drug use has gone up substantially, especially at those parties she’s been attending.”

“Are you calling her a drug dealer?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“’You know nothing about her.’ Also my words.”

“I know quite a bit more than you think I do. She showed up on campus yesterday for the first time in over a week with an unauthorized medical bag.”

I stare at David longer than I intend to. In other words, for any length of time at all.

“You know,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes. There’s something going on at Blackwell. I need your help.”

“The entire world is out to get you, isn’t it, David? It’s been that way since—”

“Wrong.” David barks the word. “This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the people in power looking the other way. Someone—maybe even Rachel—is going to end up getting seriously hurt or worse. I need you to tell me what Rachel is up to so I can put an end to the cancer that’s been eating that school alive. Is she a runner for someone? Who is it?”

I pick up my plate, slide the food off it, and launch the dish at David’s head. He ducks out of the way. The plate shatters against the glass of the back yard sliding door.

“Enough!” yells Mom. “Can we please get through just one day without fighting?”

“Rachel is under the thumb of none other than her own father and the District Attorney of All Your Shit, James fucking Amber. Solve _that_ shit, Detective Dickhead!”

I stomp off to the foyer.

“David,” says Mom. “Let her go.”

“Joyce, this is not something I can ignore,” says David. “I can _not_ ignore this.”

I try jumping into my boots and land on my ass. I spend precious seconds slipping them on. That gives David enough time to join me in the foyer.

“Get as mad as you want to,” I say. “It doesn’t fucking matter. James Amber hired a thug to kidnap Rachel’s biological mother, tie her up, get her re-addicted to heroin, and intimidate her into fucking off permanently. You want to clean up this place? Summon a fucking tidal wave and wash it all away. I can’t wait for next fucking month when Rachel graduates and we get the fuck out of this shithole forever.”

I’m sure David feels the same way.


	44. Chapter 44

[4/22/2013 9:21pm] Rachel: This is it. This is my big break.  
[4/22/2013 11:14pm] Rachel: meet me at the lighthouse tomorrow and well celebrate

I read over Rachel’s last texts for the hundredth time. I’ve been waiting here on the bench overlooking the ocean since sunup and haven’t seen a soul apart from the occasional hiker or tourist. Maybe she decided she’s still mad at me for not going off to meet her boyfriend with her. Maybe I should have. David could have waited to see my diploma. It’s just odd that Rachel hasn’t been answering her phone at all. She always answers. She makes a game out of picking up my call on specific rings to let me know what she’s doing: two means she’s not busy, three means she’s busy doing homework, and four means she needs to call me back later. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, still no answer. No idea what those numbers would mean. I’ve got nothing better to do, so I light up a joint and keep calling.

Seventy-five. That’s when I give up calling and send her another text asking her where she is and what she’s up to and today is Tuesday so where are you, honey bun? I put my phone in my pocket, take a lazy drag off my medicinal cigarette, and let my thoughts float off to the horizon as I put my earphones in and nod along to a sad, slow, weepy song about waiting around to die. I drift along a stream of memories: grilling in the backyard and going on family trips in the car and camping out in the woods with Mom and Dad and Max and…

_I walked like a duck, trying not to step on any branches or rustle any leaves as I approached Max’s brown ponytail._

_“Here, bunny rabbit,” said Max. “I’m not going to hurt you. I wish I had some tasty carrots for you to eat.”_

_“Shit!” I yelled as I fell backwards into Max._

_“Ouch!”_

_The bunny rabbit she was trying to make friends with darted across the forest floor and over a small incline out of sight. Dad laughed as he helped me and Max up off our dirt-covered butts._

_“I think Chloe the Ninja needs to work on her creeping skills,” said Dad._

_“I’m not a creeper. I was stealthing.”_

_“Whatever you were doing, it sure took me by surprise,” said Max._

_“I just wanted to…yank your ponytail. For good luck.”_

_Max reached out, grabbed my hair, and yanked my face right into the dirt._

_“Now I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” she said._

_Dad laughed._

_“You’re on a roll today, Max.”_

My phone buzzes. I pick it up thinking it’s a message from Rachel, but it’s just a shit-storm of words from Frank asking me where his hundred bucks is. What the fuck ever, dude. It’s a hundred bucks. You know I always pay you back. Eventually. I pick up the phone and thumb Rachel’s face again. I don’t even bother counting how many times it rings out.

“Maybe she lost her phone.”

Three days after she misses our celebration, I stop by her dorm room to see whether she might be hiding there. When I key in, I’m met with the same lifeless, bare walls. She’s got a pile of dirty clothing in a basket on the floor of the closet and bunch of t-shirts in the drawers. Her laptop is still here: essays that look like they could be op eds in a national newspaper, meticulously outlined assignment schedules, formatted notes for all of her classes. I sit back in her plain wooden desk chair, trying to think about what she could possibly be up to that’s made her this transparent.

A week after our date that never was, I scour the junkyard for clues as to where the fuck she went. The mix tape she made for me on a lark one drunken evening still sits on the coffee table, as do the linked bracelets Rachel stitched after she took a week-long sewing course for god knows what reason. Learning random shit can be fun, I guess. What I’d really like to randomly learn right now is where the fuck Rachel is. I flip through the album full of photos we took on our jaunts through the forests of Arcadia Bay. Sometimes it’s nice to get out of the creature comforts of the local trash pit and hit up some fresh air in the surrounding evergreen trees. And by fresh air, I mean weed.

Flip.

_“You sure you don’t want to take a hit?” I asked._

_Most people pack food and water on a hiking trip—I thought it was hilarious that I was carrying around nothing but a tall, glass bong and a lighter. Then again, I was high, so I thought everything was hilarious._

_“I’m good,” said Rachel._

_She’d been hooking us up with better stuff than I was used to lately. I wanted to ask her where she was getting it, but I’ve always said it’s best not to look a gift horse in the nugs. While I was contemplating that fascinating mental imagery, a pastel blue butterfly flitted up onto the tip of a shoulder height tree branch. For whatever reason, I decided to reach up and try to catch it. Rachel snapped a picture as the butterfly took off._

_“You look like a dork,” she said with a smile._

_“Takes one to know one.”_

Flip.

_Rachel sat at my desk, uploading the pictures she took from our afternoon in the woods to my laptop._

_“I think we should go get these developed,” she said._

_“Actual photographs?” I said._

_I rummaged around through some of the old shit in my desk while drinking my way through beer number three._

_“Yeah. You can hang them up in your room to remind of us of the good times.”_

_“We’re having good times right now,” I said. “I like to live in the present.”_

_Underneath my old blue flip phone, I found that photograph that used to hang up on the side of the shelves next to my mattress: me, Dad, Max. We were so young. Where did we take this picture again?_

_A camera shutter brought me back to reality._

_“You okay, Sad Chloe?” said Rachel._

_“Yeah,” I said. “I just got lost in the past for a moment.”_

_When she wasn’t looking, I put the photo inside my jacket. What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her._

Flip.

_The sound of bubbling water wasn’t coming from my head, but it might as well have been. I felt like I was floating along in a boat down a slow-moving river, the sound of the rapids my guide as my mind sailed away toward the clouds in the sky._

_“Say cheese,” said Rachel._

_I’m pretty sure she just told me to take another hit. So I did._

Close.

Ten days later, I’m starting to lose my fucking mind. For Exhibit A, Your Honor, I present to you my phone call to James fucking Amber.

“Chloe. I assume you’re calling about Rachel.”

“Hi, Mr. Amber. James. Yeah.”

“We haven’t seen or heard from her in over a week. If you’re calling me, I can only assume that we’re in the same boat.”

“Well, I’m in a life vest floating down the river, but yeah—I haven’t seen her, either. I was hoping you might have some good news. Or any news.”

“I’m afraid not. Are you sure you don’t know something that Rose and I aren’t privy to?”

“At this point I’m so fucked up I would have told you if I knew anything. Maybe…maybe she took off with Frank.”

“We’ve talked to Frank. He’s still in town. He hasn’t seen her since her last purchase several weeks ago.”

I twirl a lock of faded blue hair in my fingers.

“She said she had a medical bag filled with stuff she was going to sell to fund our trip out of here when she graduated. She hid it somewhere and thought that maybe Frank stole it.”

A pause.

“Mr. Madsen caught her on campus with that bag in her possession. I had to step in personally to keep the incident off her criminal record.”

“David called the cops on her?”

“As head of security, he has an obligation to protect the students under his charge. I bear him no ill will for doing his job as he sees fit.”

I’d like to slam my phone down on the table, but I need this thing. Out of the bathrooms walks some dude who’s too cool for school in a leather jacket and hair he must have slicked back with grease from the kitchen. Nathan.

Am I _that_ desperate?

“Hey, Nathan.”

I sit down at the booth across from him. I’m expecting him to look surprised to see me. He stops muttering for a moment. Maybe that’s the same thing.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Want to go drinking tonight? I’m buying.”

“I don’t need your handouts. Remember when I asked you for help and you refused? I do. I think about that shit every single day. I’d like to eat in peace.”

He takes a menu from the rack and flips through pages too fast to be able to read anything.

“We could talk about Rachel,” I say. No response. “I’ve _been_ with Rachel.”

Nathan puts the menu down. He looks me up and down with fluttering eyelids, takes a pill bottle out of his jacket, pops something into his mouth, and drinks half the glass of water sitting in front of him.

“I’m listening,” he says.

“I can show you how she was in bed.”

He drums his fingers on the table.

“You smell like you haven’t taken a shower in week.”

“I’ll take a shower. You can take a trip to fantasy island. Does that do anything for you?”

“Maybe. I’ll text you tonight.”

When I get home, I blaze up until I can’t tell where my body ends and the rest of the world begins.

_“Want to do it?” says Rachel._

_“Right here?” I ask._

_“Right here. In the middle of everyone.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Really?”_

_Her voice strains with excitement. She burns brighter, ever brighter. And then, there’s a flash of light so bright everyone covers their eyes. Even Victoria. When it fades, there’s nothing left of Rachel but a pair of life-sized wings lying in the courtyard fountain._

_“Look,” says Taylor, pointing up toward the sky._

_“That iridescent bitch,” says Victoria._

_“That’s one of the best shots I’ve ever taken,” says Evan._

_He thumbs through images on his fancy camera. I walk over to his stupid-ass fedora-topped face and slap the camera out of his hands._

_“Chloe, what are you doing?” he says. “That camera costs more than some people make in a month.”_

_He turns to stone. Everyone else looks away from me, covering their eyes with their arms, trying to escape without making eye contact. I feel at my hair—something bites into my skin between my index finger and thumb. A pair of puncture wounds leak blood all over my fingers. I reach up, pull as hard as I can, and toss a death-rattling snake stump into the dirt. Blood runs down onto my shirt and jeans._

_I whip my shirt off over my head and run from victim to victim, pulling their limbs away from their faces and forcing them to meet my gaze. Granite, marble, obsidian, alabaster. Get shit on, motherfuckers. I save Victoria for last. I pull her gold-bangled arm away from her face only to be met by a pair of glowing red snake eyes and a mouth with a serpent’s tongue._

_“Rachel had no idea who she was messing with,” she says. “And neither do you.”_

Buzz.

[8/20/2013 7:26PM] Nathan: Down the street from the Two Whales, behind the old brewery.  
[8/20/2013 7:26PM] Chloe: see you in five

I walk into the seediest dive bar I’ve ever seen in my life: dart board, pull tabs, pool tables, skanks, hicks, drunks—and that’s just the staff. The bartender is a shaggy-haired dude with a handlebar porn-stache and a beat-up red shirt that used to have a Dukes of Hazzard logo on it. I bet when someone spills beer on the bar, he just whips it off, mops up all the suds, then tilts his head back and wrings the booze straight down the hatch.

“So what’s been going on with you lately?” I ask as I pull up a stool next to Nathan.

“Sam showed up with my kid last week. She spent four days on a bus.” Nathan slams his beer. “Wanted me to come back to New Hampshire with her. Dad cut her a check and cut her loose. Put her on a private plane.”

“Just like that? Did you spend any time with your kid?”

“As much as I needed to. He’s better off. I’m not fit to be a parent. That’s what the legal documents they served her said. Drink up.”

I slam the bottle that appears. Nathan takes a photo out of his pocket: a brown-haired, soft-faced woman holding a ruddy-cheeked little boy in a sailor’s outfit.

“That’s Sam?” I say. “She looks totally different from the last photo.”

“Yeah. She’s grown up a lot in the last year. Had to. Faster than anybody should have to. Joshua will be two years old in four months.”

“And now you’ve seen him.”

“My dad is hooking them up with money every month. She doesn’t want for anything.”

I’m feeling pretty good. I put my hand on his leg. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“So, you’re pretty much the top dog on campus,” I say. “You can do whatever the fuck you want. Do they even make you go to class?”

“Just photography. That dude knows his shit and he’s got the track record to prove it. My dad went all out to get him to come here. He should be traveling the world, teaching the cream of the crop, but instead he’s out here in the middle of nowhere, teaching Blackwell’s elite how to be _real_ artists and not just a bunch of fake-ass hipster posers. He’s the only reason I’m still living in this shit town. Shots.”

The bartender pours two small glasses, then lights them on fucking fire. We enjoy the show, then drink the show. Tastes like soda.

“I could get used to these,” I say. “Heard anything about Rachel?”

“If she could be found, she would have been. Micro-brew.”

Two drinks in and I’m already fucked up. Shit has a bitter aftertaste, but that’s about the only thing I can taste.

“Hey,” I say, “you know why I told Sam to confess to you at that homecoming game?”

“I never did figure that one out.”

I almost nod off before I can answer. Could have sworn I took a nap before I came here.

“Brooke threatened to go get David when you and your buddy crashed into the booth. I didn’t want to have to deal with him.”

“Sounds like classic Chloe Price to me,” he says. He raises his bottle. “I just wanted to thank you for hooking me up with Sam. She’s the love of my life. Cheers.”

I down the entire thing in one go. At some point I remember spitting up brown liquid onto the counter and Mullet Man whipping out a white terry cloth towel, the kind Mom might buy from an overly enthusiastic salesman on a home shopping channel. He uses it to wipe my mind spotless. The sounds and images around me twist, warble, and fade into pure blackness. Somewhere in the distance, a voice calls out to me.

_“Wake up, Chloe,” said Max. “Your mom made huge stacks of pancakes and waffles.”_

_“Hey, Max.” I yawned. “You know that lucid dreaming stuff you’ve been geeking out about lately?”_

_“Yeah? Did you have one last night?”_

_“No, but I think I’m having a flashback in a dream right now. You woke me up for breakfast yesterday, too. What do you call that?”_

_“Well, you actually are awake. Maybe you’re hallucinating?”_

_“Too easy.”_

_“Astral pro…I forgot what it’s called.”_

_“Projection? Nah, I’m not a fan of that cheesy mystical bullshit.”_

_“Oh, I know: time traveling!”_

_“Now you’re talking. Let’s go eat pancakes, then travel back in time so we can eat them again.”_

_“Won’t our bellies stay full?”_

_“Fuck if I know. Let’s go find out.”_

I float along a stream of dark consciousness in a cave whose walls are lined with fallopian ridges. I glide toward a light in the distance. The uterine opening is on me before I know it. I’m reborn.

Nathan has a camera in his hands. He’s on his knees with a fucked up smile on his face, like he’s filming some titty porn and getting way too into it for his own good. He’s wearing a belt, so I’m guessing his pants aren’t going to be sliding themselves off any time soon. He looks more intent on getting the money shot than he is on creating it.

“The fuck, dude…”

I put my hand against my head.

“Son of a bitch,” Nathan says. “I dropped bank on that asshole.”

My mind attempts to fuck-start itself and fails. It’s like I’m trying to do a sprint with a parachute harness strapped to my torso. My limbs are firmly rooted to the ground, which is where my chest and pelvis find themselves after a feeble attempt to stand up.

_Click. Click. Click._

Nathan lies down on his stomach. The lens is an inch away from my eyes. I command my arm to grab his camera. He stands up right as I’m about to take it.

“What was the last thing you said to Rachel?” he says.

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

My legs are back in business. He stands up and comes at me. I kick him in the balls. I reach for his standing lamp and swing it at him. It strikes the back of his head with a satisfying _ping_. He goes down to the ground with his face in his hands. I slam my shoulder up against the door over and over until my hand unfucks itself and figures out how to turn the door latch. I stumble to my truck and spend ten minutes drooling onto the floor mats before my body figures out how to drive the damn thing. The lights come at me so fast I end up vomiting out the window. When I get home, I drop trow right in the driveway and relieve myself. I’m so fucked up I don’t even care. When I wake up, Mom is standing over me wearing a surgical mask, plastic gloves, and the strangest look I’ve ever seen on her face.

I’m nineteen years old and legally an adult, but when she grounds me for a week, I don’t even complain.


	45. Chapter 45

“I need to borrow three grand,” I say.

The open road flies past us.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” says Frank. “You sound like you need a check up from the neck up, Price.”

“Yeah, I am losing my grip on reality. This summer is hot as fuck, I have unpaid traffic tickets, and I have people I need to find.”

“You asking me to teach you how to keep the cops off your ass? I can’t help you with that one. You’re not even in my league.”

Frank pulls his RV into some shithole gas station. He stares out the windshield as he waits for the attendant to do their thing.

“I need to find Rachel Amber.”

“Rachel Amber, huh? Why the fuck should I fund a search and rescue mission for someone who doesn’t want to be found? When she took off, she pretty much gave a giant middle finger to anybody who cared about her.”

“Frank, I didn’t know you were so in touch with human emotions.”

“Yeah, as you may have noticed, I have a bit of a soft spot for kids. The ones who fucking pay me, anyways.”

“Dude, I paid you. We’re totally even. That’s why I’m asking you for three grand. I find Rachel and she pays you back with the ton of cash she’s made.”

“You’re full of shit, Price. And you don’t know a goddamn thing about how the world works. But you’ve caught me in a moment of need.” He cranks open the window and hands a wad of cash to the attendant. “Two packs of cigarettes. No change.”

“I have? You have needs?”

“Is your mind ever not in the gutter, Price? You know that head of yours is for more than just holding your brain.”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you need? Just don’t ask me to do any murder shit.”

“Would you calm the fuck down? I’m not in that business. And if I were, I can guarantee you someone would have already come around to take me out of that business.”

The attendant returns with a pair of white rectangles and hands them to Frank. He cranks the window shut, then tosses the cigarettes at my chest. I’m so surprised that I forget to catch them—I fish them off the carpet where Frank’s scary-ass pit bull sleeps.

“Frank, I’m…shocked by your generosity. I mean, not that I have anything against it, I’m just—”

“Okay, mouth. Enough chatter. Listen up. My normal courier is out of town, so you’re working for me this summer.”

“What do you mean, this summer?”

“You know how long it normally takes to make the kind of money you’re asking for?”

“Uh, no. I’ve never actually been paid for the work I’ve done.”

“Three months. That’s how long you’re on the payroll. You complete the work to my satisfaction, you get paid. Understand?”

“What kind of work?”

“First, we establish the ground rules: you do what I tell you to, you don’t ask questions, you don’t take detours, and you shut your fucking mouth. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Bullshit. Tell me what I just told you.”

“I do what you tell me to, I don’t ask questions, I don’t take detours, and I—”

“This is the part where you shut your fucking mouth. You’re doing weekly drops for the next three months. You complete every single one with no fuck-ups, you get paid. Understand?”

“What I understand is that you expect me to work without pay just like David fucking Madsen.”

“That’s another thing: he’ll probably be riding your ass when you deliver to his area. You know how to avoid him?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Good, because your trial run is in his neighborhood. Now, listen the fuck up: you’re making a delivery to the science department. Shouldn’t be anybody around on a Sunday three weeks after classes let out, but you never know. I hand you a package. You take the package to the science classroom. Put it on the shelves behind the glass, behind all those textbooks. The ones next to the skeleton in the back of the room. You go across the hall and knock twice, then you fuck off. I get a phone call, you get further instructions. You got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Bullshit. Tell me what I just told you.”

“Package. Science classroom. Shelves behind the glass behind the books next to the skeleton. Across the hall. Knock twice. Phone call. Money.”

“ _Further instructions._ You prove you can do this without fucking up, then we talk money. The package is on the table next to the laptop. Don’t fucking touch anything else. You walk to Blackwell.”

“From here? That’s like, two miles.”

“Would you rather walk home broke?”

“Point taken,” I say.

Frank’s mission takes half an hour to pull off. Twenty-five minutes of it is avoiding David. The other five involve tip-toeing into the science classroom in my socks—Frank told me to take my boots off to avoid making noise—and trying to figure out how to open the goddamn cabinets. In the process, I come to realize that the mannequin over by the fish tank is actually a person. A living, breathing person with nicely styled brown hair and a light brown sweater vest and earphones and a pencil moving across a white sheet of paper without rhyme or reason.

It’s Nathan fucking Prescott.

He bobs his head up and down, scribbling away to whatever sounds are crawling into his ears through those white plastic wires—and then it hits me: this package, this classroom, this person, David following me. Please, for the love of god and all that is holy, none of which I actually care about and none of which strikes me as particularly holy, please fucking tell me that I am not delivering this asshole’s medications.

“Just put my shit in the cabinet and leave. Jesus Christ.”

Doesn’t even look up. Doesn’t seem to care. I could be a ghost, I could be his own mother, I could be even Chloe Price, that girl he drugged and photographed and then bragged about to his fucking friends online. Even posted the picture. It came down the next day, along with his post, but I saw it. Archived it. Stored it for future use, in case I ever need it. I wonder how much I could strong-arm this asshole for—

Heavy footsteps in the hall. Boots. I crouch under a table. The door at the front of the classroom opens. David’s head pokes in, scans, disappears. The door closes; boot steps fade into the distance. Nathan never even looks up.

I say a prayer to Rachel and try not to vomit as I put the box in the cabinet behind the textbooks (pull up, then out on the knob). I walk across the hall, knock twice, then slow jog back to the entrance doors. I never did figure out those video games where you could be hidden while running at full speed. Then again, I played them by killing everything in sight, so I guess maybe I don’t understand the fundamental concept of being sneaky. But David does, because he meets me right as I’m walking out the front fucking door. I think a sneaky person would have gone out the back, or the side, or…anything that isn’t the main entrance to the main courtyard where I’m one of a handful of people present along with the head of fucking security.

“What are you doing here?” says David.

“Getting Rachel’s medical records.”

“The nurse’s office isn’t open today. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do now. I thought they’d be open during the summer like any respectable institution. I guess being a second-rate academy doesn’t come with those perks.”

David crosses his arms and spreads his legs out on the sidewalk, the way cops do when they’re showing you how official and authorized they are. David just looks like someone who flunked out of the police academy.

“You did a good job of throwing me off the trail, I’ll hand that much to you. I know something is going on. Why do you have your hands in your pockets? What are you hiding?”

“The same thing that Nathan’s hiding.” I unveil the middle fingers I was smuggling in my pockets. “He sure is invisible, isn’t he?”

“Nice try, young lady. He and I were discussing personal issues earlier, man to man.”

“And your discussion was so intense that you decided the rules don’t apply to him.”

“I told him he could use one of the classrooms for his personal therapy. Listen, if you know something that can help with what’s been going around here, just level with me. I’m here to help.”

“I leveled with the District Attorney, and now that I’m on his level, I see nothing but assholes.”

“Enough. These are serious matters. I will _not_ have you involved in this type of illicit activity. How do you think it would make your mother feel to see you following in Rachel’s footsteps?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Rachel was making deliveries. She thought she could do it in broad daylight and nobody would call her on it. I’ve got photographic evidence of her recurring meetings with Frank Bowers.”

“Oh, so that’s what the photography program is actually for? To spy on people?”

“You’re trying to throw me off the trail again. Not this time. Are you making deliveries for Frank?”

“Do I look like a James Bond villain to you? Nathan’s a saint but Rachel’s a drug dealer and now I’m on the list of suspects, too?”

“Your behavior is suspect. Most people wear shoes when they’re out of doors. As I recall, when you had Rachel over on the morning of my job interview, she wasn’t wearing shoes or much of anything else. It’s because she was under the influence of drugs, wasn’t it? Are you on drugs right now, Chloe? Did you sell your shoes for drugs?”

I run away from him as fast as I can. The pavement shreds and burns my socks. This is the price I pay for trying to be stealthy. I should have just kept my fucking boots on so I could outrun anyone I tipped off. I hobble my way at full speed through somebody’s back yard, around their pool, over a chain link fence, and out onto neighborhood streets. David must be too busy thumping his chest with Nathan to chase after me.

It’s started raining by the time I get my phone call from Frank.

“Price.”

“Got some good news for me?”

“You tipped off a couple of people. One of them didn’t matter, but the other one could have been a problem.”

“Could have been? Which means they aren’t.”

“For what I’m paying you, you could have done a better job.”

“I delivered the fucking package, didn’t I? And what exactly _are_ you paying me besides jack shit?”

“All right. It’s three drops a week for the next three months. Every drop is a fifty-spot.”

“Fifty bucks? That’s it?”

“You’re getting paid double what I’d normally give you because I have a soft spot for pretty faces.”

“Say _what_?”

“Rachel, not you. You left a stack of those Missing Person posters in my house.”

“Your _house_. Yeah, of course you meant Rachel.”

“You make all thirty-six drops without fucking up, you get a twelve hundred dollar bonus. That’s three grand. You have until the end of September thirtieth to pay me back.”

“Pay you back? You said _you_ were paying _me_ fifty bucks a drop.”

“You need to adjust your fucking ears. I said this was a loan. You get a chunk of it every time you make a successful delivery, then the big payoff when you make all of them. When October first rolls around, you pay it back. That’s the deal. Installment distribution. Unless you want to eat your mom’s diner food and bum cigarettes off half-drunk truckers all summer?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fucking shit.”

“Your stash and your first paycheck are in the refrigerator at the junkyard. Do you still have a problem with our arrangement?”

“I heard you. I also heard you have a thing for that fridge. Is that where you’re keeping your dead bodies these days?”

“Three grand is a small price to pay to get rid of your mouth for a while. And, Price…”

“What’s up?”

“This is the first, last, and only time I do charity work. You got that?”

“Three large is charity work? What, are you gonna start _charging_ me to smuggle your shit?”

“All right, you made your point. Now shut your mouth and lay low until you hear from me again. Anyone asks you any questions, you don’t know shit. And it’s gonna be ten bucks per day every day you don’t pay me after September thirtieth. You’d better be good for it.”

“As long as you’re good for it.”

“We’ll see whether you can go through an entire summer without fucking up.”

That would surprise even me.


	46. Chapter 46

Cigarettes, pizza, beer, music, weed, clothes, truck repairs, Missing Person posters, Brooke’s internet expertise, truck insurance, driver’s license renewal, parking tickets, more truck repairs, traffic tickets, magazines, done. Three thousand dollars come and gone with nothing to show for it but a bunch of boxes delivered to a bunch of places, most of which I’m never going to see again, with the exception of the one I never wanted to see again the most: Blackwell Academy.

School is back in session in the second week of October and I have a lesson for the kid whose shit I delivered almost every single week. I ripped open one of those boxes, had a look inside, slapped it back together with packaging tape. Nobody was any the wiser. I know the names, the additives, looked up what all that shit does. Nathan is about to get a fucking enema.

I get all of five seconds to slap my own cheeks and mentally rehearse my scripted dialog before my arm decides to open the bathroom door and my body walks in on _my boy_ Nathan leaning over a sink. My mind informs me that my brain cells have collectively voted to abstain from this conversation. I slam stall doors open to jack up my confidence.

“So what did you want to talk about?” he says.

“Just checking the perimeter first, as my step-ass would say.” Nobody here. “You know what I’m talking about, since you’ve been stepping all over his ass. Let’s talk business.”

“It took you six months to decide you had a problem.”

“I have a long memory. I remember shit I don’t even want to, like when some asshole tried to turn me into a still life portrait. My body went into hibernation. It needed time to compensate. And now _you_ need to compensate.”

“I’ve got nothing for you.”

“Wrong. You’ve got hella cash.”

“That’s my family. Not me.”

“You keep telling me the same sob story and yet I have evidence to the contrary. How does someone with no fucking cash get hooked up with boxes and boxes of shit all summer long? How is that you magically have money for parties and cameras and _drinks_ but as soon as I call you on your shit it’s suddenly under lock and key in your family’s money vault?”

Nathan stares at himself in the mirror.

“I thought Frank hooked you up,” he says.

“Yeah, Frank’s a nice guy like that. I don’t wake up on the floor of his van with a camera pointed at me.”

“I was just fucking with you.”

“I’m not the only one you’ve been fucking with,” I say. “I know you’ve been hooking up kids around here with drugs, and not just some harmless party favors. Hardcore shit. The kind of shit that people like Rachel overdose on.” He jerks his head toward me. “Maybe I should start recording some of your parties undercover and putting them up online. I bet your family would find the money for you then, wouldn’t they?”

“You got paid. Leave my family out of this, bitch.”

“Paid? With what, _exposure_ on your social media feeds to horny rich kids who’ll pay to wank it to a simulated corpse? Maybe I should return the favor and point that lens right back at you so I can show everyone that Nathan Prescott is a punk ass bitch who whines like a little girl and talks to himself.”

I shove him in the chest. My stomach is going to explode. I have to fight to contain mys—

“You don’t know who the fuck I am or who you’re messing with!”

The barrel of a gun bears down on my spleen, my kidney, one of my lungs, holy shit it hurts. I clench as hard as I can and still piss my pants. My hands go up in front of me.

“Where the fuck did you get that?” I’m going to vomit. “Put that down.”

He pins me against the wall with the muzzle of the gun. He sticks it up against my chest even harder. I never knew anything could possibly hurt so goddamn much. I try to shove his gun hand away by grabbing his wrist, but he presses even harder yet, so hard that I think I’m going to faint. His face is right up in mine: his hot breath, the spittle on his bottom lip, the foam in the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t _ever_ tell me what to do. I’m so _sick_ of people trying to control me!”

“So you’re going to kill me? You’d get in a hell of a lot more trouble for that than drugs!”

“Bullshit! Nobody would ever even miss your punk ass, would they?”

“Get that gun away from me, you psycho freak!”

Right as I raise my arms to shove him away from me, a pastel blue butterfly flits up into the air from behind the last bathroom stall, leaving a rainbow contour trail as it flies in slow motion across the tops of the mirrors. Everything moves at the speed of…nothing. Dad’s hand rests on Nathan’s shoulder.

Dad?

I grab Nathan by the collar, scream at him as loud as I can to pull the trigger, you fucking pussy. Pull it and send my innards against the back of the wall and onto the floor so you can trip all over them on your way out of here and David will have to clean them up while he stares at my fucking corpse. PULL THE TRIGGER YOU FUCKING COWARD.

The fire alarm sounds.

“No way,” says Nathan.

He looks around the empty bathroom for the invisible dude who started up the first half of a police siren on repeat. The butterfly is gone. I knee him in the balls and push him to the ground.

“Don’t ever touch me again you fucking freak!”

I bail out the door and run straight to my truck in the parking lot. I’m double parked across a handicapped spot, but that’s the least of my worries. I slam the door, start the engine, curl up into the fetal position on the floor—yes, the dirty-ass fucking floor—and chain-smoke cigarettes as fast as I can inhale them. I lift aside the thrift store floor mat and blow the smoke through one of the holes. If anyone glances at my truck, they’ll see a shitty junker with a smoking engine in need of repair, not someone who’s annihilating entire tobacco fields in a desperate bid not to barf her fucking lungs up onto the parking lot pavement.

I count something like five, six, seven cigarettes, I don’t fucking know, before I’m recovered enough to sit up and check the perimeter. The butterfly is there again, perched on one of my windshield wipers. I throw my truck into drive and it flies off toward some bro in a leather jacket—Nathan—having a wrestling match with a shaggy-haired dude in the parking lot. A stick figure in a grey hoodie sporting a book bag watches them with her hand over her mouth. If Nathan’s getting into fisticuffs, he must have stashed his gun—unless he’s _completely_ stupid, and even if he is, I’m pretty sure bringing a truck to a gun fight makes me the automatic winner.

I slam on the fucking brakes when the stick figure’s mop of dark hair goes flying as she tumbles to the ground in front of me. The butterfly I was following takes off into the sky. A face full of freckles appears in my windshield. She’d look like Max if she combed her side-parted brown hair straight back and put a headband in over—holy fucking shit.

Maxine.

Motherfucking.

Caulfield.

“ _Max?_ ”

Exploding Barbie dolls, backyard pirate ships, Coke bottle periscopes, buried time capsules, illustrated choose your own adventure stories, dressing up as two halves of a cream-filled cookie for Halloween, haunted attics, drawing sessions on the couch with Max sitting under my legs, tape recorded messages to our future selves, chatting together every day at lunch, playing her silly video games, dreaming into the sunset at the lighthouse, carving our initials into the tree as the ocean rolled in, her face in the rear windshield of her parents’ car when she left with them for Seattle five years ago.

“Chloe?”

I wave her over and open the door at the same time. Max scrambles into the passenger’s seat. Nathan kicks my door shut as I drive off. I peel out of the parking lot. David runs up to the party thirty seconds late like he always does whenever Nathan’s involved. If it had been me getting into it with another girl, he would have been waiting in the bushes. But because it’s the campus golden boy—

Oh, yeah. Max is here. Holy shit.

“Man,” she says as she turns her camera over in her hands. “Nathan Prescott is messed up…and dangerous. This day never ends.”

“Oh, and thanks for bailing me out, Chloe! Five years later and you’re still Max Caulfield. Minus the headband.”

“You’re one to talk, Miss Blue.”

Max looks over my freshly re-dyed dark blue locks underneath an equally dark blue beanie. It’s a far cry from the shoulder-length swath of blond hair I was sporting the last time we saw each other. She looks down at her skinny legs in their skinny jeans.

“Come on, Max,” I say. “Don’t give me the guilty face. At least tell me you’re glad to see me. And we’re even on the same side of the windshield this time.”

“Chloe, I’m…really glad to see you. Seriously.”

“It’s cool, Max. So, you’ve been here a month and you’ve already managed to piss off the local freak show. What did he want with you?”

“Hopefully nothing after today. How do you know him, anyways?”

I think about telling Max the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but I think that might be a little too much way too soon.

“Just another Arcadia asshole,” I say. “Your friend really took a beatdown for you.”

“Warren? Yeah, I owe him big time for that one.”

“That makes two of us in debt.”

”Feels really weird to be back.”

“Seattle sucked pretty hard?”

“Not really. It felt like a great place for artists, full of larger than life people and places. Great for taking photos.”

“It must suck donkey nuts coming back to a hick town like Arcadia Bay.”

“Not after seeing you.”

I look away so Max can’t see my smile.

“Please, girlfriend. You came back here for Blackwell Academy.”

“Only for Mark Jefferson. He was pretty famous back in the nineties. I’ve always adored his work.”

“The photography teacher. All the girls are fawning over that guy lately. Well, I’m glad you found a good reason to come back.”

I give her the evil eye.

“I’m sorry, Chloe. I told you I’m happy to see you.”

“Right. After five years without a call or a text. ‘Queen of the Crickets.’ Is that one still in your phone?”

“Give me a break. I was going through changes…like you.”

“Like everyone in your life dying or disappearing?”

“That’s not fair, Chloe.”

“Life isn’t fair, Max. Did you think you were going to hook up with all those art pricks in Seattle?”

“I didn’t order my parents to move specifically to fuck you over, Chloe.” Max slumps her back against the padding of my truck’s shitty seat. “God. You’re merciless.”

“You’ve been at Blackwell for almost a month and the first time you talk to me is when I randomly roll up on you in the parking lot watching a mid-day wrestling match.”

If the situation had been reversed, my first day back I would have been dry-humping her in the foyer of her parents’ house right in front of said parents. I’d even let them take pictures with the blocky, antique camera Max keeps fussing over.

“I think it’s broken,” she says. “Man, are you cereal?”

“Wow. I haven’t heard that one in a while.”

“Not everything changes. But my camera has officially taken a shit.”

“Well, my step-douche has a garage full of tools I use when he’s not around. Why don’t you fix it at my place?”

“I need very specific tiny tools.”

“My step-dork totally has one of those. Several of them, actually. I’m sure you’ll find what you need. In the garage, I mean.”

We pull up into the driveway of the house I’ve been haunting for the last five years. Now, there will be two ghosts.

“Welcome home, Max.”

“The house still looks…nice.”

“Yep. Home, shit, home.”

Max follows me inside like a stray kitty cat. Mom, I’m going to keep this one whether you like it or not. And she’s not even a Leo. Meow.


	47. Chapter 47

“Welcome to my crash pad,” I say. “It looks a little bit different than the last time you saw it.”

“You took down some of your old posters,” Max says. “And you have...inspirational quotes written on the walls. It looks cool. At least we can chill here.”

“This isn't exactly my chill zone,” I say. "My step-führer makes sure of that. Close the door and put on some music while I medicate.”

I take a joint from my jacket—any shit I kept in my room started disappearing shortly after Rachel did, so I have to keep it on me, instead, which paints a big old target on my back whenever David's around. And that fucker makes sure he's around—a lot. In fact, it's only a matter of time before he strolls up here and starts some shit, so I might as well celebrate Max's return as hard as I can before step-swat busts up the party. I'm lit up and blazing by the time Max figures out how to work my sound system.

“What should I play?” she asks.

“Anything, as long as it's loud. So, tell me, what does Max the Photography Fiend do for fun now that she's all grown up? Besides repairing ancient cameras, that is.”

“Party all night.”

She flashes me a cheeky smile.

“Yeah, right, Little Miss Wallflower. Have you ever even been to anything other than a birthday bash?”

“I was kidding.” Max looks around on the floor and fishes out my CD case next to my mattress after I point her to it. “I take photos. Of myself, the world around me, everything. It may sound pretty boring to you, but I have a blast.”

“It's not so boring if you have the right subject matter.”

“I'm happiest when I've got a great image in my lens.”

Max holds one of my CDs in her palm while she rectangle-frames me with the thumb and forefingers of both hands.

“Now that's what I call inspiration,” I say. “Maybe life isn't so shitty after all.”

I take a drag off my medicinal cigarette and sway from side to side. Max snoops around in my metal box for another CD—except she's holding the folded-in-half picture of me and Rachel that we took on our hiking trip, the one I used to make her Missing Persons poster. More like missed persons, and now Nosy Max is rubbing it in.

“Give me that.”

Max looks like she's just seen a ghost.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to be nosy. It looks like she must have been a really good friend.”

“That's putting it mildly.”

Max sits down next to me on the mattress.

“That's Rachel Amber,” she says. “Her Missing Persons posters are all over Blackwell.”

“I know. I put them up there. I've spent all summer doing nothing but look for her. She's my angel. She saved my life.”

“Wowser.”

“Oh, man. Wowser. Another one I haven't heard in forever.”

“I'm sorry, Chloe. I had no idea.”

“Sorry for what? You were fourteen and we were best friends. It's not like finding out wasn't a text away.”

Max looks at the floor.

“Stop looking so sad, Max. You moved away and Rachel had my back. We were going to kick the world's ass together. You would probably laugh at how different we were: the movie star beauty queen and the punk rock outcast.”

"She _is_ a beauty. She looks like a model."

"That was the plan. Our plan. Get the hell out of Shit Town and head off to the City of Angels where she could be with her own kind. When we went down there last summer, she was an entirely different person. This place is too small for her. Too small for anyone with dreams."

"What happened?"

"Mom couldn't wait to get re-hitched to Sergeant Shithead and Rachel's dad reeled us back in every time we made a break for it. A thousand reasons to leave and none of them good enough until we both graduated. I even finished high school early so we could get the hell out of here. Rachel's grades were so awesome she could have just walked into Principal Wells's office, slapped him across the face with her dad's wallet, and he would have handed her a diploma."

"Why doesn’t anyone know what happened to her?"

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t still be here. Before she left, she said she met somebody who changed her life, and then… _poof_. Gone.” I exhale a sigh that should really be some punk rock-infused, medicinal smoke. “Can you put on some music now?”

Max plays a sad, soft, guitar-backed song about kids and their dreams and running off to the sunny shores of California. I don’t feel like dancing any more. I lie down on my mattress, take a hit off my joint, and stare up at the same smoke stain I’ve looked at every day for a thousand years.

“You can find some tools to fix your camera in the garage,” I say.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Sure. I’m just going to blaze up to the soft strains of destroyed childhoods and broken families and crushed dreams. It’ll be awesome. Go find David’s tools.”

I lose myself in a cloud of memories: me and Rachel on the beach, Rachel in a bikini, me in a t-shirt and cut-off jeans with my socks and shoes off, my skin as pale as the corporeal spirit sitting at my desk, fiddling around with a miniature screwdriver and a camera that should have been recycled ten years ago.

“So?” I say as I haul myself up to my feet.

“I can’t fix this thing,” she says.

Polaroid photographs peek out of her book bag. I look through them.

“Nice! Get fucked, you skank!” Queen Victoria sulks on the dormitory steps in a paint-covered cashmere shirt. “Karma’s a bitch. Nice framing, too.”

A butterfly perches on the rim of a bucket on a tiled bathroom floor.

“Wait,” I say. “Rainbow trails? No fucking way! When did you take this?” Max has the guilty face again, the same one she was wearing when she ate all the chocolate chips that were supposed to go into our batch of cookies. “ _You_ took this photo, you little brat! This was in the bathroom today, over in the corner next to the… _you_ were the one who set off the fire alarm. That’s why Nathan came out to the parking lot and went off the top ropes on your friend when he jumped in. It totally makes sense…here I thought I rescued you from Nathan but it was actually the other way around. You saved my life, Max.”

I can tell Max wants to lie, but she’s Max, and Max is physically incapable of certain things: burning a CD with even a single pirated song, writing a story in which the protagonist dies, and lying. She couldn’t even lie her way out of sixth-grade gym class after winning an impromptu, student-arranged cafeteria chili eating competition. It wasn’t until the hundred meter dash became the hundred meter bathroom dash that Coach believed her.

“I was there,” she says. “Hiding in the corner.”

“Damn. You’re a ninja.”

“A ninja would have fought Nathan with a samurai sword. I just took a picture of a butterfly.”

“You’re still a badass,” I say, punching her in the shoulder as lightly as I can. She still grimaces. “Did you recognize me?”

“Not at all. Your hair and clothes are so different. And you have a tattoo now.”

“Yeah. Rachel and I got tattoos. Maybe you should get one.”

“Totally. I should get a target on my forehead.”

“Oh come on, Max. Relax. You didn’t tell anybody about what happened in the bathroom, did you?”

“I wanted to, but I was scared. What if Nathan goes on a rampage?”

“Fuck that shit. Nathan is a punk ass little bitch who fronts hard and that’s it.”

“He would have shot you,” says Max. “That’s a fact. I think maybe I should tell the Principal.”

“What, are you still twelve years old? Principal Drunkass only cares about keeping his whiskey cabinet stocked and Blackwell cash’s supply flowing. I trust that prick about as far as I can shot put a planet.”

“I didn't say anything to anyone. I promise.”

“Awesome. I seriously owe you. In the meantime…” I grab Dad’s old Instamatic camera from the bookshelves underneath my glowy bear lamp. “…here. I know it was your birthday last month. This is Dad's old camera. He'd want you to have it.”

She takes it in both hands.

“It's so sweet that you remembered my birthday. But I can't take this.”

“Are you pretending to hesitate? Yeah, right. Of course you can take it. Dad would be pissed if it never got used. And in your hands, I know it will be used awesomely. I'll snag this butterfly photo as a symbol of our reunion. Cool?”

“Yes, of course it's cool. Thanks, Chloe. This camera is awesome.”

“Awesomeness gets passed down through the generations. Now it's your turn. Let’s thrash!” I crank up the distorted guitar riffs coming from my sound system. “Shake that bony white ass, Max!”

Max's dance moves look like they never really recovered from their five-year hiatus. The best I can get out of her is her belly-riding a surfboard out into the waves.

“Hey, why don't you take a picture of me with your new old camera?”

Max stops boogie-boarding and bends slightly at the hips for the shot. There's a flash of light, then Max air dries the photo before setting it down on my desk.

“Chloe?” booms Deputy Dickhead’s voice. “Is that you up there?”

“Turn the music off! Turn it off!”

I jump off the mattress and rub the end of my joint out against the windowsill.

“How many times have I told you not to blast that punk shit?”

“The music’s not even on!”

“I’m coming up there. We need to talk.”

So, here's the deal: if I ever have anyone over, a cheerleader, a teacher, a vacationing stewardess, a church nun, David just automatically assumes they’re a drug dealer. What's in those pom-poms, Dana? Why is your skirt so long, Miss Mile High? What are you hiding in those robes, sister? Drugs. And I guarantee he’ll do the same shit to Max. I flick what’s left of my joint out the window.

“Max, you need to hide. Step-ass will grill you if he sees you here, and it’ll be nothing like Dad’s hamburgers.”

I throw myself against the door right as it starts to open. The handle jiggles.

“Chloe, what's going on in there? Open the door.”

“I'm changing. My bra clasp is stuck.”

“Bullshit. You wear sports bras.”

“Why the fuck do you even know that, you pervert?”

“Your shirts don’t have sleeves half the damn time. Open the door.”

While I'm busy trying to buy Max time, Max is busy not figuring out how to hide in the goddamn closet.

“Chloe,” says David, “you're stalling. I'm giving you until the count of three.”

I jab my finger at the wooden-slatted doors of my clothes closet. Max looks at them but doesn't move.

“One.”

“I'm not done yet. I swear to god…”

“Two.”

“…you had better not come in here while…”

“Three.”

"...I'm half-naked or I'm telling Mom."

David crashes into the room and looks straight at Max.

“What is she doing here?” he says.

“None of your business,” I say.

“This is my house and what goes on here _is_ my business, or have you forgotten that?”

“This is my mom’s house, not yours. Have you forgotten _that_?”

David looks at me, then at Max, then back at me.

“One of my guns is missing,” he blurts out. “Did you take it?”

“Oh, god, I didn’t take your stupid gun. You know I believe in gun control, right?”

David walks around my room, sniffing like a bloodhound. He looks out the window, then climbs up onto my goddamn desk and through the window wearing his goddamn boots. He stomps back in with my half-smoked joint in his hand.

“Is this grass?” he says, holding it up to my face. “You’ve been toking up in here again?”

“Yeah, David. Guns and weed. That’s what I do with my fucking free time. You are tripping balls, dude.”

David rounds on Max.

“So, _you’re_ bringing drugs into my home. Maybe I should call the police. That would screw up that spotless Blackwell record of yours, Miss ‘Noir Angel.’”

David glances at me. I frown.

“What?” says Max. “How do you know that name?”

”It’s losers like you who are responsible for encouraging this kind of behavior in Chloe.” He turns to me. “Or are you ready to confess?”

Max clasps her arm like a little kid who’s just been caught dipping into the cookie jar. I should feel bad for her, but she didn’t even try to hide. Has Max changed?

“It’s not mine,” I say. “It’s Max’s.”

“That’s my pot,” says Max. “I brought it here.”

My head explodes.

“Innocent, my ass, just like another ‘friend’ I know.” He puts the joint in his shirt pocket. “I was a soldier, Max. A man of integrity. And if I see you here again, you’ll learn all about integrity down at the police station.

I flip off the back of his head as hard as I can.

“Are you all right?” Max asks.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks for taking the heat, Max. You are seriously fucking awesome. Come on—I know a place where we can hang out in peace.”

I drive Max to the lighthouse, the place I waited forever for a girlfriend who never showed up until one day, two weeks shy of six months later, Max Caulfield sat down beside me and I tried to pretend I wasn’t happy that the two most transparent ghosts in my life had switched places on me.

“Isn’t this awesome?” I say. “Totally reminds me of when we were kids.”

“You’re in a strange mood today,” she says.

“Seeing someone stand up to step-ass makes me happy. And you even lied for the first time in your life, just for me.”

“I’m just sorry he hassled you so much. Sometimes, I have no control over it.”

“Over what? Nobody has control over David. Not even David.”

“I tried my best. I must have looked like an ass.”

“I couldn’t figure out why you were having so much trouble with the knocked-over lamp that was holding my closet doors shut, but then I realized you weren’t even trying. You were staying unhidden on purpose. You’re brave as hell.”

“I’m not as brave as you think. What if he comes after you again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to stick around that broken home to find out just how bad things can get.”

“Why did Joyce marry him, anyways? He doesn’t seem like her type at all.”

“David isn’t anybody’s ‘type.’ Mom was desperate and needed somebody. Anybody. And holy shit, did she find anybody.”

“The kind of ‘anybody’ who freaks out on innocent girls like Kate Marsh.”

“Seriously? That fucking prick. You’d have to be a first class shit bag to bully someone like Kate.”

“I know. It’s like he has some kind of hidden agenda.”

“Yeah, there’s an Illuminati conspiracy going down at Blackwell and David is going to be the one to end it. I accidentally take some of his mail up to my room and he knows about it five minutes later.”

“Chloe, when I was looking for his tools inside the garage, I saw his files. And his cameras. Your whole house is under surveillance. That’s probably why he knows everything you do as soon as you do it.”

“I knew it.” I slap my legs and stand up. “I knew that fucker was spying on me.”

“That is so totally fucked up.”

“And so totally just another day in Arcadia Bay.”

“What do you mean?”

I tell Max everything—from the good to the bad to the ugly to the Nathan Prescott. I hate myself for subjecting Max to this kind of bullshit, but she needs to know the truth of what she’s getting herself into so she doesn’t get blindsided by it one day and wonder what the hell just happened.

“…I just had no idea that psycho would pull a gun,” I say. “I’m sorry you had to listen to me freak out in the bathroom. I was totally ready to go.”

“Anyone would do the same with a gun pointed at them. We should call the police.”

“Fuck that. We have to bring the Walter White down on him ourselves.”

Max puts her hand on my shoulder. I put my hand on hers.

“I won’t always be there save you,” she says.

“You were here today, Max. That’s all that matters. Seeing you after all these years feels like…”

“Destiny?”

I walk to the edge of the cliff.

“If this is destiny, then I hope it’s our destiny to find Rachel. I miss her, Max. This shit-pit has taken away everyone I’ve ever loved. I’d like to drop a bomb on Arcadia Bay and turn it to fucking glass.”

No sooner are those words out of my mouth than something drops a bomb on Max and sends her to the ground, clutching her head in both hands. I manage to catch her before she passes out. She rests in my arms for a while, mumbling something about twisters and hurricanes and some Wizard of Oz shit. I’m about to dial 911 when she sits up in a daze.

“Chloe! Oh, Chloe, you’re here. Thank god you’re here. Oh, man, this sucks. This really, really sucks.”

“Max, what’s going on? You totally blacked out. You were muttering something about tornadoes.”

“I didn’t black out. I had another vision. The town is going to get wiped out by a tornado.”

“What, are you a shaman now? Oregon has, like, five tornadoes every twenty years. You just zoned out.”

“No, no, I saw it! I could actually feel the electricity in the air.”

“Dude, just take a breath. You need to calm down.”

“I’m not crazy, Chloe, I swear! But there’s something else I have to tell you. Something…hardcore.”

“Talk to me, Max.”

“I had this same vision earlier in class today. But when I came out of it, I discovered that I have the ability to reverse time. Like I said: not crazy.”

Oh, no, Max. Not crazy at all. Bongo is dead, Dad is dead, Rachel is missing, Nathan pulled a gun on me, and now Max Caulfield who’s been gone for five years comes back to Arcadia Bay with superpowers from outer space that can alter the flow of time.

“You sure you’re not high?” I say. I put the back of my hand up to her forehead. “If you’re not, we can get you high. I think you need to get high right now.”

“Listen to me, Chloe. How do you think I saved you in the bathroom?”

“By reversing time? Obviously. That was going to be my first guess.”

“I saw you get shot.” Max frowns. “I saw you actually…die. I was able to rewind and hit the fire alarm before that happened.”

“All right, Max. But you know that’s normally the kind of stuff you see in comic books and video games and anime, right?”

“I know. And I know I have it, too. I don’t know why or how, but I’m scared shitless.”

“Are you sure you didn’t get brain damage from all that time you spent in Seattle?”

“No, Chloe. I’m serious. You have to believe me.”

“You seriously need to get high, Max. It’s been a crazy day.”

Max shakes her head and runs her hands through her hair. Apparently she’s developed a serious case of dandruff since she’s been in Seattle, but it’s cool. I don’t mind that at all—except it’s all over her hair and my hair and…everywhere. Thick snowflakes descend all around us.

“What the fuck?” I say. “Are we getting a white Christmas early this year?”

“That’s a lot of snow for October,” says Max. She looks up at the sky.

“It’s like eighty degrees. It should be fifty-five and raining.”

“Climate change,” says Max as she stands up. “Or a storm is coming. It’s because I used my powers. I know it is.”

“Max,” I say, “I know you’re clinically incapable of lying—well, until today, that is. So, unless our five years apart have made you even more messed up than I feel right now, there has to be something to what you’re saying. You’re not exactly the ‘Batshit Crazy Mystic’ type.”

“I don’t believe it either, but I have it. I don’t why, but I have it.”

“If you say so. But you know what else is crazy? I’ve seen this before.”

I put my hand out, let a small pile of snowflakes collect, and blow them into the air before they can melt into the lines of my palm.

“You have?” says Max. “What did you think it was?”

_“Rebirth,” Rachel said. “A gift from the spark that set in motion a series of unforgettable, life-changing events.”_

_She put her hands on my shoulders. I let my fingers rest on her wrists._

_“A butterfly flutters its wings for the last time in a place called Carmel-by-the-Sea, two new butterflies in a northern seaside town emerge from their cocoons to begin the rest of their lives.”_

In the midst of falling snow, a neon blue butterfly lands on Max’s book bag, flutters its wings briefly, and flies away.

“What happened when you saw this the first time?” says Max.

“Nothing good. This time, I want to know what’s coming. So, start from the beginning. Tell me everything that’s swirling around in that head of yours.”

What follows is a chaotic mix of weird science and high fantasy unlike any story Moral Max has ever written.


	48. Chapter 48

“Here she is, looking for a free meal again.”

Mom stares me down as soon as I walk into the diner. I busy myself fist-bumping Trevor and Justin, in that order, two dudes I haven’t really hung out with since Rachel left. Every time I see them skating or smoking up or…well, those are the only things those two ever do, and those things bring back too many painful memories, so I try to forget that I know them most of the time.

“You’re going to put your whole damn college tuition fund on your meal tab,” Mom says.

I sit myself down in the booth across from Max.

“Nice to see you, too, Mom. Hey, look. It’s Mom and Max, together again.”

“I’m treating Chloe for breakfast,” says Max.

“Are you atoning for yesterday?” says Mom.

She pours Max a cup of coffee. I push my cup toward Mom, but she ignores it.

“Please do not give Max any shit for that. She said she’s sorry.”

“I know she did,” says Mom. “Max is a good girl. She’s also eighteen years old. An adult.”

“Right. Too old to be lectured by you or Sergeant Pepper.”

“Call him David if you don’t want to be lectured. You only get one damn slice of bacon today.”

She stalks off behind the counter.

“What is this trucker wet dream shit?”

There’s some honky-tonk wankety-spank country music bullshit blaring on the jukebox played by the kind of guys who wear cut-off jean shorts and drive their trucks through state parks hunting bald eagles with potato launchers. I change the tunes to something a little more punk rock, then slap my hands down on the table. Max jumps up, as do her coffee cup and plate of food.

“Sorry,” I say. “At least I wasn’t hiding in the closet, right? Anyways. You say you have superpowers. I want to see them in action.”

Max swallows a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

“I still don’t really understand it. Maybe…I could tell you everything you have in your pockets.”

“Okay, go.”

“A cute robot panda keychain, ten cigarettes, eighty-five cents in change, and a parking ticket issued at 10:34am.”

I empty my pockets onto the table.

“I bet you saw my key chain and the parking ticket when you were snooping around in my room yesterday. Seven cigarettes. _Seventy_ -five cents in change. Did you just roll your fucking eyes at me you little shit?”

“That took five minutes. Can we be done now?”

She drinks the rest of her coffee and starts dissecting her Belgian waffle one square at a time.

“Take that crap off the table, Chloe,” says Mom.

Three cigarettes and a dime come out of my jacket pocket to make room for all my shit. Max doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t need to know.

“How’s the food, Max?” Mom asks.

“Better than I remembered.”

“Well, I’m glad someone around here is appreciative.”

“Thanks for the food, Mom.”

I put an entire mini-sausage in my mouth and smile at her. She rolls her eyes and walks away.

“If this were an eating challenge, I would totally destroy it,” I say. “What you just did was pretty good. I mean, I used to read Sherlock Holmes when I was kid. He’d take one glance at a guy and rattle off his hometown, occupation, shoe size, and penis length down to the millimeter. Oh, does that gross you out, you little perv? What I’m saying is, I want something more definitive.”

“Fine. If it makes you happy, I’ll do it. Last time, though.” She settles her ass into the worn red padding of the booth. “I will now predict the future.”

“Awesome.”

“The trucker over there drops his mug and Joyce rips him a new one. The cop gets an emergency call on his radio and his partner leaves without him. Justin and Trevor get into a fight and Joyce breaks it up. Finally, a cockroach crawls up the jukebox’s butt and makes it freak out.”

A coffee mug hits the floor as a drunk trucker staggers into the counter.

“Watch where you’re going,” says Coffee Guy.

“You’re cut off,” says Mom.

“You’re not even serving me,” says the trucker.

Mom swings the counter partition over her head and bends down to sweep shards into a dust pan. Meanwhile, Officer Berry’s radio is going nuts with names and numbers. The cop car out in the parking lot takes off with siren and lights flashing but screeches to a halt when Officer Solo-Pants runs out the front door hollering.

“Later, dick,” Justin says to the window.

“Don’t call me a dick,” says Trevor.

“Take your fight club outside,” Mom calls.

“Whatever,” says Justin.

The jukebox’s record needle loses its groove. I jump up and drop kick it with my boot, triggering the automatic changing mechanism.

“ _Chloe_ ,” says Mom.

“What? Nobody ever fixes this thing and I don’t feel like listening to cat scratch.”

“I need to take a nap,” says Max.

“You’re pretty good at this, Super Max. We should go play in my junkyard hideout.”

Something reddish in color appears under Max’s right nostril. A small trickle of liquid drips down onto the table.

“Max, your nose. You’re not doing blow, are you?”

“Yeah, right.”

She grabs one of the napkins from the stand and wipes up the red spots on the table. I grab another and put it under her nose.

“Thanks,” she says. “Too much excitement, I guess. See what happens when we hook up again?”

“It’s destiny, Max. You need me around to look out for you.”

Max balls up one of the napkins and stuffs it into her nostril.

“Fine,” she says. “Show me the way to Chloe’s cave.”

I’m halfway through the door when Max pulls out her phone.

“It’s Kate,” she says.

“Dude, if we stay here my Mom is going to start some shit with me.”

Max tilts her head to one side and stares at me—is this little shit giving me the Doe Eyes?

“Where did you learn that?” I say.

“Learn what?”

“Fine,” I say. “Take the fucking phone call.”

“Chloe,” Mom calls. “I need to talk to you before you leave.”

Max looks out the window while she mouths sweet nothings into her phone.

“This is the last time I want to see you coming in here, begging for a free meal,” Mom says. “You need to get a job or get your ass in college.”

“I’m still looking, Mom. I know she’s out there.”

“You’ll have plenty of free time to do your investigating while you’re earning a wage or a degree. I know Rachel means the world to you—”

“Yeah, Mom. Without her, I have no reason to live.”

“That’s not true. You _do_ have a reason to live and it’s time you recognized that. I deserve better than what you’ve been giving me. You _and_ David.”

“Oh god, Mom, please do _not_ compare me to that douchebag.”

“Enough with the disrespect. I’m tired of living in a house with a foul-mouthed daughter and a moonlighting crusader for justice who spend all of their free time crawling down the rabbit holes inside their heads. You need to get out into the world and start living your life. And you can start by finding somewhere else to eat.”

“Fine,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I’ll stop bothering you at work.”

Max puts her phone in her pocket.

“Thanks, Max,” I say. “That argument was awesome. Maybe you should go chill with Kate so you can _abstain_ from doing anything with your best friend.”

“Kate needed someone to talk to. David and…the entire world are riding her pretty hard right now. Like the way you’re riding me.”

“Seriously, Max?”

“Seriously.”

“Awesome. I’ve got other people to hang out with.”

“Chloe, I might pass out again.”

“Boo hoo, Max is scared. What, do you think you’re gonna die—shit, never mind. Let’s go.”

I blow through the door with Max on my heels. After that shit with Nathan, I decided to “borrow” one of David’s guns from the gun rack in the garage. Max is going to help me take out my frustrations in the junkyard. Maybe Nathan will show up and I can claim self-defense. Max would never leave my side after that.

“Keep up,” I say. I stalk over to a rotting television stand and clear the crap off the surface. “After you left me in the dust for five years, I think you can handle a little of mine.”

“Chloe, I said I'm sorry.”

“Prove it. Go find me some bottles for target practice and then we'll kiss and make up.”

Max's face doesn't look grossed out like I thought it would.

“It's just a figure of speech,” I say. “Now go fetch me my rum bottles, First Mate. We have some keelhauling to do.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Bluebeard! I'll have your booty in hand before you know it.”

She gives me the dorkiest one-armed salute ever and wanders off toward the old fishing boat in search of bottles of liquid therapy that help me remember the happy times with Rachel. Therapy comes in many shapes and sizes: small cigarettes, medium beers, and a super-sized Max walking toward me with a book bag stuffed full of bottles.

“That was fast.”

“Maybe you’re the one zoning out now.”

Max hands me the bottles one by one. I set them up on top of the television stand.

“I don't know about this,” she says. “Guns and beer are a messed up combo.”

“Not any more messed up than guns and Nathan. We need to be prepared the next time that fucker comes at us. You ready, Super Max?”

“I’m not Super, just Max. Aim a bit to the right.”

I take the top off the bottle.

“That’s it?”

“I told you, I’m only human. Just like you. Let’s try again. You do it this time.”

 _Pop!_ The first bottle explodes as soon as I pull the trigger.

“Fuck yes!” I say. “This kicks the shit out of Barbie dolls.”

“Barbie dolls don't need a shit-kicking,” says Max. “And are you sure we need a gun? It's not like everyone in Arcadia Bay is armed.”

“Nope. Just the assholes.”

“So that makes us assholes, too, then.”

“As if. We're the sensible ones. I'm Robin Hood, taking guns from the armed and giving them to the armless. Wait, that doesn't sound right. Whatever. What's my next shot?”

“Aim slightly above.”

_Whizz!_

“That wasn’t even close, Max.”

“I’ve never fired a gun. And I’m worn out from the diner.”

“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

_Pop!_

“Nice! It's like I'm twelve years old again. All right, let's wrap this up with one super kick-ass shot to rule them all.”

“Fire at the left tire of that old junker on top of the trash heap.”

“Target acquired. Adios, spinning wheel of death.”

I pull the trigger twice. The tire deflates, sending the car down toward us. Max takes a couple of steps backwards. I stay firmly rooted in place with a huge smile on my face. The car flips itself end over end on top of the television stand, destroying it and everything on it all at once.

“I need a tissue,” says Max.

She stumbles forward. I put the gun in my waistband and take her in my arms. Her eyes close and she goes limp.

“Max!”

I princess carry her over to the hood of one of the rusted out cars that time has been kinder to. I set her head on my legs and stroke her hair while she mutters about storms and climate change and epic destruction. Eventually, she comes to. She looks at me through narrowed eyelids.

“You okay, Max? You freaked me out there.”

Something makes a noise behind us. Max sits up. I turn around and spot a dude with messy hair and a leather jacket heading toward us—oh, fuck. It’s Frank.

“Max, take the gun,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Just take it! Frank cannot see me with a gun or he’ll freak. Take it!”

Her face goes sheet-white as I hand it to her. She holds it like it’s made of burning coals and spiders and venomous snakes. I jump up off the hood of the car and walk straight at Frank.

“You’re pretty agile for a chronic drunkard,” I say.

“Let’s just say I’ve seen the light and mended my ways.” He spreads his arms out at his sides. “I have all kinds of newfound energy.”

“Congratulations on joining Junkies for Jesus, Frank. What, do you have your own morning sermon on public access now?”

“Yeah fucking right. I don’t have my own show, I don’t have time for this shit, and I definitely don’t have three thousand fucking dollars plus interest. What is today, the eighth? That’s eighty in interest. Who the fuck is that?” Frank tries to look around me, but I body block his shit-colored eyes. “What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing, Frank. What the fuck could I hide from you? Aren’t you always bitching about how this is the public dump and everything here is public property?”

“Hey! What do you have behind your back?” He tries to move toward Max but I step in front of him. “Oh, are you two Bonnie and Clyde now? Or is it Abbott and Costello? How about I pop your girlfriend here right in the funny bone?”

On his arm hangs an old, hand-knit bracelet made of blue and black woven bands—Rachel’s bracelet. Son of a bitch.

“What the fuck? Where did you get that bracelet?”

“A friend gave it to me,” Frank says. He scowls at me. “What fucking business is it of yours?”

“That’s Rachel’s bracelet. Why the fuck are you wearing her bracelet?”

“It was a gift, all right? Calm yourself.”

“Bullshit! You stole it! Give it to me right now, you fucking asshole!”

I reach for the bracelet. Frank steps back and pulls out a knife.

“Back the fuck off, kid. Don’t do anything stupid.”

I’ve had a gun pulled on me, so this shit doesn’t even faze me. What’s he going to do, stab me in the arm and not collect his money while I sit in the hospital for a week? I come at him.

“You want me to cut you, bitch?” Frank says.

“Bring it on, _Damon_.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

“Step back,” says Max. “Please…step back.”

Max holds the gun in both shaking hands. It’s pointed at Frank.

“You’re kidding,” says Frank. “Put that down.”

Max pulls the trigger. The hammer strikes and—nothing. Nothing in the chamber. I was having too much fun to be bothered to keep track of how many bullets were left. Frank sheathes his knife as he laughs too long and too loud. I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard him laugh before.

“Oh, man,” he says. “That is hilarious. Not only have you never held a gun in your life, you don’t even know how to load one. Next time try bullets, genius.”

“Max, make him give me the bracelet.”

“Chloe, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. Do it.”

“Oh, so you two are a couple of thugs, now, is that it?” says Frank.

“Max, if I mean anything to you, you’ll do it.”

“And if I mean anything to you, you’ll let it go.”

Blood runs from her nose all over the front of her hoodie. Tears run from her eyes.

“Let it go,” she says. “You want me to choke to death on my own blood?”

“What the hell is she talking about?” Frank says.

_“Dude, are you fucking serious?” I said to Rachel. “I’ve known Frank for years. He’s harmless. I just want to fuck with him a little. The worst he’s ever done was called me a bitch when I owed him money.”_

_“So don’t give him a reason to call you a bitch.” Rachel slapped the bag of green stuff against my chest. “Dude.”_

“Nothing,” I say. “Keep the bracelet.”

“Oh, I get to keep something that already fucking belongs to me?” says Frank. “Well, holy fucking jumping shit balls.” He points at Max. “I’ll remember your face, kid. That’s the face of the little girl who almost shot me but was too stupid to figure it out.” He rips the gun out of her hands. “Next time you’ll know better. And so will I. You have until Friday to pay me, Price. Don’t ever pull shit like this again.”

“Chloe, I’m…”

I wrap Max up in the tightest embrace I can without crushing those brittle bones of hers.

“Max, you’re awesome. Let’s blow this place. Frank won’t bother us again as long as he gets his money.”

“How are we going to get his money for him?”

“We’ll figure it out. Walk and talk.”

We head off down the railroad tracks. I balance on top of one of the beams. Max walks along the other one, slowly but steadily, just like we used to do when we were kids. She takes my hand, seemingly on instinct, and pulls me off into the knee-high grass by the tree line. A minute later, the graffiti-covered cars of a train rumble past. Max rests her head in her hands.

“I still can’t believe you pulled that gun on Frank,” I say. “That was epic.”

“I don’t feel so epic. I need to lie down.”

I cross one leg atop the other and put my hands behind my head on the railroad tie. Max is opposite me a few feet away, resting her head on her book bag with her hands over her eyes.

“Don’t you keep your camera in that thing?” I say.

“It’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ve got my journal on top of it.”

“Ooh, a super secret journal. What do you write in there? Love poems?”

“Of course. I also write about my every day life, the things that happen to me. It’s nice to have a place to put down all my thoughts.”

“You should let me read it some day.”

“As if.”

“I’ll make you a deal: you let me read your journal, and I’ll let you read all those letters I wrote to you while you were in Seattle.”

“I never got any letters.”

“Yeah, because I never sent them. They’re collecting dust in a drawer in my room somewhere.”

“Really? I didn’t know you were thinking about me that much.”

“Unlike you, I remembered you even after you left.”

“Chloe, that’s not fair. I was…”

“Whatever. You’re back now. Deal or no deal?”

“It’s a deal.” She sighs. “How did you get Frank to lend you three grand, anyways? It sounds like he hates your guts.”

“We used each other, basically.”

Max makes a face.

“You mean you…”

“What? No. Fuck no. Gross. I do not have sex with Frank. I ran errands for him, he lent me a boatload of money.”

“Rachel must really mean a lot to you.”

“She meant the world to me. Means the world. I miss her. I wish you could meet her.”

“Do you think she and I would have gotten along?”

“Rachel got along with everybody. The three of us would have been hella best friends forever. I need to find out why Frank has Rachel’s baby bracelet. It’s like her birthmark. The only other person worthy of wearing it is me, not some bean-eating shit-stain who lives in a trailer.”

I brush off my jeans and stand up. We walk down the tracks.

“I love the open road,” says Max. “The wind in your hair, the scenery passing you by. Kerouac knew what I’m talking about: the romance of travel and movement…the sound of the train whistle at night.”

“Listen to you,” I say, “the aspiring beat poet. You’ve been back for two days and it’s like you never left. Now you have to stay here. Call your parents and tell them you’re moving. We’ll rent an apartment in the middle of nowhere where nothing exciting and potentially life-threatening ever happens.”

“Done. First, I need a ride back to Blackwell. I have art class in less than an hour.”

“Sir, yes, sir. Oh, and you might want to leave your hoodie in my truck. Mom will do laundry for you.”

I put my arm around her, she does the same to me, and we walk like that the rest of the way back to the junkyard. If she wanted me to, I’d skip the truck and walk all the way back to Blackwell with her.


	49. Chapter 49

When Max isn’t busy saving my life over and over, she’s off saving the lives of her fellow Blackwell students. Normally, I wouldn’t lose much sleep over the loss of someone like Taylor or Courtney or our beloved Queen Bee Victoria, but Super Max actually managed to talk Kate Marsh down from the dormitory roof after a video was plastered all over the internet showing Kate completely wasted and making out with thirteen different guys at a Vortex Club Party. I’ll give you thirteen guesses as to who was responsible for broadcasting the offending video and the first twelve don’t count.

[10/09/2013 11:26AM] Chloe: did you seriously put that shit on the internet?  
[10/09/2013 11:48AM] Victoria: Chloe. What an unexpected and unsolicited surprise. Whatever are you talking about?  
[10/09/2013 11:49AM] Chloe: the video of kate scrubbing all those dudes teeth clean with her tongue  
[10/09/2013 11:49AM] Chloe: why the fuck would you do that to someone like her?  
[10/09/2013 11:53AM] Victoria: I had nothing to do with that. The poor girl did it to herself. As for the video, the internet works its own magic.  
[10/09/2013 11:54AM] Victoria: I will say that she’s lucky her self-dissemination didn’t lead to insemination.  
[10/09/2013 11:54AM] Chloe: you’re lucky my fist doesn’t lead to a face crater  
[10/09/2013 12:19PM] Victoria: Oh, my. Well, I don’t exactly need a pounding, but it sounds like someone else could use one.  
[10/09/2013 12:19PM] Victoria: Be a dear and keep me out of your thoughts? And my number out of your phone. Ciao ciao.

With David’s security keys in hand and David sound asleep, I slink out through my window and drive off to Blackwell, where Max and I are going to do some good old-fashioned midnight detective work researching Rachel’s disappearance.

[10/09/2013 11:26PM] Chloe: max

[10/09/2013 11:27PM] Chloe: I have something to show you

[10/09/2013 11:28PM] Chloe: meet me in front of campus

I hide behind one of the bushes near the brick wall that surrounds the main courtyard. I fiddle with the miniature leaves and adjust my beanie while I wait for Max to get her bony ass down here. She lives like ten feet away. Five minutes later I spot a pencil-thin figure sporting a lump on her hip.

“Boo!”

She spits up on the sidewalk.

“Shit,” I say. “Sorry, dude.”

“I’m not a dude,” says Max.

“Well, obviously. I just meant…”

“You just meant to be an insensitive asshole. You know I don’t like it when you surprise me. And this is the kind of day where I don’t need any more surprises.”

“I thought a rock star like you wouldn’t mind taking a break from saving lives to have a bit of fun. I guess I’ve forgotten what you do for entertainment.”

“So have I,” says Max. “And I didn’t save Kate’s life—she made that decision herself. I had no idea what to say to her.”

“You didn’t need to. You talked her down and that’s all that matters. Just like you don’t need to be a detective to help me figure out what’s going on.”

“What exactly are we doing out here?”

“We’re doing some cloak and dagger shit. But instead of daggers, we have keys.”

I show her David’s security keys.

“Where did you get those?”

“Anything’s possible when you’re a ninja. And related to the head of Blackwell security.”

“Isn’t that breaking and entering?”

“How can it be breaking if you have the key? Come on.”

I head off toward the main entrance to the main building in full view of the floodlights that illuminate the photography teacher’s avant garde billboard smut. There’s a tug at my arm—Max pulls me behind one of the billboards and crouches down.

“Thank you again, Mr. Jefferson, from the bottom of my heart for helping me put together a portfolio,” says Victoria.

“I just hope that the rest of the class will follow your lead.” A man’s voice. “I’m sorry I was distracted. As you know, today has not been a very good day for Blackwell.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if Katie had jumped,” says Victoria.

“Bullshit,” I whisper. Max puts her hand over my mouth.

“Katie?” says Mr. Jefferson. “I had no idea you two were close.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Victoria. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something else: the Everyday Heroes contest.”

“Right. Well, the contest will go on, just as life will. However, I won’t be representing Blackwell at the contest this year thanks to Max, who claims that I was the one who kick-started this entire series of events simply by listening to Kate’s pleas and failing to demonstrate unquestioning support for her assertions.”

Max clamps down on my cheeks even harder.

“I’ll give you a one-word sneak preview of Max’s entry,” says Victoria. “Selfie. Listen…you’ve seen my work. You know it’s better than that self-indulgent bullshit. Don’t you think I’m a more worldly and sophisticated representative of the best of what Blackwell has to offer, Mark?”

“Let’s stick to Mr. Jefferson, Victoria. I’ll give your entry the same consideration that I give to everyone else’s. It’s only fair. Good night.”

“ _Mister_ Jefferson,” Victoria says to his footsteps. “You already love my work, so it’s not like you’re playing favorites. Just imagine if you picked my photo. We’d have to spend a _lot_ of time together. Don’t you think that could be…fun? _Stimulating?_ ”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” says Mr. Jefferson.

“Are you also going to pretend that you didn’t offer to choose my photo for favors?”

“You have a bright future ahead of you, _Miss_ Chase. I wouldn’t want to see anything or anyone cast a shadow on it. As a favor to you, I’m going to ignore your undisguised threat. I suggest you go back to your dorm room.”

“Wait!” says Victoria.

The once-mighty Bitchmobile mopes her way down the sidewalk and into the darkness beyond the courtyard’s perimeter walls. I put up my hand for a high five. Max puts her finger to her lips. She motions her head toward the entrance.

“Max, you are totally awesome and I stand in awe of your photography skills. But let me just get one thing straight: you had David, Nathan, and Mr. Photography in the Principal’s office and you pointed the finger at the guy who pulls the trigger on a camera shutter?”

“You told me not to trust Principal Wells. David’s the head of security and Nathan seems like he can get away with anything. I was scared of what might happen.”

“That’s an excellent fucking point.”

As soon as I enter the secretary’s office, I punch Principal Wells’s door. That doesn’t work, so I start trying keys. None of them works.

“Shit. Step-fucker has the key to every door on campus except the one we need to get into.”

“Maybe we should just call this off.”

I slam my shoulder into the door.

“Or maybe I could help look for the key,” says Max.

She walks over to a pegged cork board on the far wall with a bunch of keys hanging off it. I jiggle the handle while staring into the keyhole.

“None of these are it, Chloe. They’re all keys to empty dorm rooms and janitor’s closets and maintenance rooms.”

“Awesome. I guess I’ll try those lock picking skills Frank taught me.”

“Frank taught you the art of thievery?”

I take out my tools—metal ear wax cleaners—and start fucking around with the insides of the keyhole. Max puts her phone’s flashlight on the burnished metal plating of the handle’s housing.

“Frank didn’t teach me shit,” I say. “It’s just something I tell myself so I don’t feel like such a loser for spending time around him. You have any better ideas?”

“Actually, I do. I’m gonna go put it together. Can you stay here and not get caught?”

“As long as I stay away from breakable objects, Chloe the Ninja should be just fine. And I might even get to the other side of that door before you do, Lupin.”

“The race is _on_. See you soon.”

I make another couple futile attempts at picking the lock, but it does me about as much good as picking my nose. I’d rather just blow the door open with a bomb, but that would leave evidence.

“This is bullshit. Fuck you, door!”

The door responds by opening.

“Welcome to my domain,” says Max.

“The domain of air ducts big enough to accommodate your bony ass? Wells must use those to deliver his booze without attracting attention.”

“Let’s find what we need and beat it.”

I turn on a nightstand lamp only to be slapped across the face by your neighborhood retail outlet’s finest collection of generic wall paintings, mass-produced statuettes, and books whose primary purpose is to make the bookshelves they inhabit look useful. I plop my ass down into the most useful-looking thing in the room: a padded brown leather chair that gently cups my ass cheeks while giving me a back massage. I decide to make Wells’s desk just as useful by putting my boots up on it.

“Man,” I say. “I can see why he locks this room up. Fancy faux art crap. Probably wants everyone to know he has money, but no taste.” I spy a bronze bust that looks like a bird would if it had been shit out by a larger bird. “How can you trust somebody who has a fucking bronze eagle on his desk? I’m glad I was expelled.”

“Yes,” says Max as she peers at bookshelves and closed cabinet doors. “If only the Principal had a Monet or a Picasso you’d still be here.”

“Eat me. I’m going to pilfer the documents on this ugly-ass desk.”

”I’ll take the cabinets.”

I shuffle through papers and notes and notices and letterhead forms, only to find a bunch of crap that would make for great bedside reading material. His personal computer looks a lot more promising, so I turn on the monitor and prepare to get to work at guessing his password. Turns out, he doesn’t even put a password on the lock screen. Probably wouldn’t be able to remember it since he’s hammered half the time he’s in here.

“What should I look for?” says Max.

“Information on whoever you can find. Rachel, Kate, Nathan, anybody.”

Max rummages through closets and cabinets while I look over discipline reports, letters from Sean Prescott, evidence of expunged records, police reports detailing damaged property, messed up pencil drawings. A letter on Wells’s desk written in ornate cursive handwriting catches my eye—it’s a complaint from Ms. Grant about David’s plans for cameras on campus. Now I’m _really_ fucking glad I got expelled. This doesn’t bode so well for Max, though. And these creepy drawings don’t exactly put me at ease.

“I think I’ve found what we need,” says Max.

“You’d better come check out these files,” I say. “Nathan accused Rachel of bringing drugs on campus. And step-troll went along with it because he thought Rachel was a bad influence on me.”

“Ouch. If David is teaming up with Nathan Prescott, that’s a bad sign.”

“This just proves that Nathan already has almost everyone in his pocket. Look at this shit: ’Nathan Prescott the Third.’ That fucker actually tried to get me to believe he doesn’t have access to the family cash stash, but you know they dropped major bank and half a whiskey factory to bury his real file. It all reads like a rap sheet: failing grades, teacher complaints, psychological assessments, secret probation. Meanwhile, my broke ass gets expelled.”

“Check out that note,” says Max. “Open it.”

I click on the scribbles peeking out from behind a stack of windows.

“That’s just some crazy drawing,” I say.

“No, look closer. ‘Rachel Amber in the dark room.’ ‘Rachel Amber in the dark room.’ It’s repeated over and over.”

“That’s fucked up,” I say. “Now I know he has something to do with Rachel’s disappearance.”

“Listen to this: ‘David M. always asks what’s going on inside my head. David M. always helps me follow those he follows.’ That sounds pretty cryptic…”

“Only if you haven’t been hanging around the last three years,” I say. Max exhales through her nose. “It’s true. Two psychos on the same wavelength and now David is helping Nathan stalk people. How do you think Nathan knew where to find you in the parking lot?”

“I thought he just asked around.”

“Not ‘around.’ He asked David, the head of security, the prick I have to live with who seems to magically always know where I am, including on a Sunday in the middle of summer when campus is as empty as a frat house without booze.”

“And he’s helping a fellow psycho find people who want nothing to do with his bullshit. Like me…”

“Which is exactly why you don’t need to be walking around with that photo of a bathroom butterfly in your book bag. If they made Kate a target, they definitely wouldn’t have a problem with witch-hunting Rachel. We are _so_ going into Rambo’s garage files. I don’t give a fuck about his security systems.”

I scroll through finances, academic records, tuition logs, overdue library book fees, parking tickets, personal emails. Just for shits and giggles, I type Max’s name into the search box and up pops a bulletin from the Arcadia Bay Police Department.

“No fucking way,” I say.

“What is it?”

“A notice to Wells from the ABPD that Frank Bowers turned in a gun to one of their contacts, claiming that a young woman named Max pointed it at him in the junkyard, then dropped the weapon and fled when he threatened to call the police. Bowers reports the young woman was wearing a light grey hoodie and carrying a dark blue book bag. Wells replied that a search of Blackwell enrollment records returned a student matching that description: Maxine Caulfield.”

“Are you serious?” Max leans in next to me and reads through the e-mail exchange with her own eyes. “Oh my fucking god.” She kneels down and puts her forehead on the surface of Wells’s desk. “Didn’t you say Frank was harmless?”

“Yeah, at least I thought so. I mean, I’ve known him for years and this is the first time I’ve heard of him doing shit like this.”

“So why hasn’t Wells busted me, then?”

“Probably because he was too busy busting open another bottle of brandy. Also, the next reply in the chain is from Sergeant Cook stating that Frank later recanted his statement when they traced the bullets in the gun back to a local gun shop owner whose logs confirmed the bullets were purchased by one of Frank’s associates.” I throw myself back in Wells’s chair. “That ass. While we were strolling down the train tracks and waxing poetic, Frank was on his way to the fucking cops.”

I stand up and bounce the chair off the backs of my legs. I start opening desk drawers just to see if there’s anything that might help us on our way out of here and find a thick-stuffed envelope containing a stack of hundreds. I don’t need to count them—the number 5,000 is written right on the front of the envelope.

“Max. Check the desk.”

She lifts up her head. Her eyes find the wad of cash.

“What is that? ‘Handicapped Fund.’”

“Whiskey-capped fund. A donation. You really think Principal Rumrunner is going to put a ramp out front?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not, Max. There are better uses for it.”

“Like what?”

“I could pay Frank off. He might talk to us about Rachel if he’s been paid. But after that shit he pulled, I’m not so sure I want to give him anything.”

“You could go by yourself,” says Max. “Maybe he wouldn’t want to see me.”

“I’d rather not see him at all if I don’t have to. Shit. I need a cigarette to kick-start my thoughts.”

“In here?”

“Should I do it outside to make it easier for David to pinpoint my location?”

“Would he really be hanging around campus at midnight?”

“Yes, he would.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll grab the fire extinguisher.”

“Thanks, Max.”

And then, because it’s Max, she actually returns with a fire extinguisher.

“Just in case you light yourself on fire while you’re smoking.”

I stare at the envelope on the desk. Wells, Prescott—I bet they wipe their asses and fuel their Christmas fireplaces with this kind of money.

“Get that fire extinguisher ready, Max.”

I take out my lighter. Max looks at me, then at the envelope.

“Are you crazy? He’ll shut down the whole campus if he finds out someone vandalized his office!”

“Story time, Max. There used to be a security guard named Skip who worked here. Eventually, he moved on to bigger and better things: starting a rock band and going on tour. You know what he named his band?”

“Skipping Town?”

“Not a bad guess, but no. He named it Pisshead, after _this_ guy.” I point at the desk with both index fingers. “You could rob Wells blind and he’d be too hungover to notice, but if I so much as knock back a shot of his whiskey, he’ll be up my ass about it tomorrow morning.”

“Fuck. I hope you’re right about this.”

I take the bills out of the envelope, fan the tops of them into a nice spread, thumb my lighter’s sparkwheel, and watch Benjamin Franklin’s green-backed landscape portraits burn all the way down to my knuckles. I toss the remnants onto the desk. Max pops the fire extinguisher’s pin and sprays them down.

“Done,” I say. “Let’s go for a swim.”

“For a swim?! I thought we were supposed to be ninjas. And shouldn’t we clean up first?”

“No. I want Wells to know somebody knows about his shit.”

“Okay, but what if somebody saw us? What if this is being recorded?”

“The petition against installing David’s security cameras passed. Check the letter on the desk.”

“I know. I signed that petition.”

“You’re awesome, Max. Have I ever told you that?”

“I don’t feel awesome.”

“You will after we go for a dip and clean all this bullshit off our bodies. Besides, you deserve it after all the shit you’ve been through today. Splish splash?”

Max sighs.

“My life would be a lot less interesting without you in it. Splish splash.”


	50. Chapter 50

_Under hazy methane clouds, I stand before an ocean of blood and ichor that flows beyond the stream of time. A solitary figure appears on the horizon. The hull of a canoe comes to rest against the rocky shore. The vessel’s caretaker is a gaunt assemblage of flesh and bones held together by frayed tendons and sinews. It wears a faded red lumberjack’s shirt and pair of stonewashed leggings so shredded they no longer resemble clothing._

_I sit down across from Rachel. She starts rowing._

_“Don’t touch me,” she rasps. I curl the fingers of my outstretched hand inward and let them fall onto my leg. “The heat of your flesh would sear me.”_

_Silence hangs over us for an eternity until we reach the window of my bedroom. Water threatens to flood in as I open it. Inside, Max sleeps peacefully._

_"She's back," says Dad. "I knew she'd find her way back.”_

_Rachel hides her face as she rows her vessel back the way we came. Flaxen hair hangs over gaunt cheekbones like brittle straw. A sudden gust of wind breaks off blond, ashen fragments and spreads them over the water’s surface._

_“That’s not how this ends,” I say._

I open my eyes. Max fumbles with her camera, angling it toward her face. I take a moment to collect myself, then sit up and put my head right behind hers.

“Photo bomb!” I say.

_Click._

“Photo hog,” she says.

“You know you love it when I drop bombs on you. Admit it.”

“Depends on what kind of bombs.” She air dries the photo. “Those bombs we dropped on Blackwell last night? Yeah, I did enjoy that.”

“You should take a chlorine bath at least once a year. Your hair looks so cute when it’s soaked in chemicals.”

“You’re one to talk. Your roots are even coming back in.”

Max holds up the picture of us in both hands.

“I wish we could hang out all morning like we used to,” she says.

“We can,” I say. “Just skip your tests and your homework and all the parts where you have to care about things. Worked for me.”

“I work better with a plan and a schedule. Did you and Rachel have a lot of sleepovers?”

“As often as possible. We got to choose between Rachel’s dad riding her ass about homework and step-commando wanting us up at the ass-crack of dawn. She reminded me of you when you used to fake sleep so we wouldn’t have to get up so early on Saturday morning, except she was still actually sleeping. That girl could doze like no other.”

“I can see why you hung out with her. Maybe she would have fought over both of us.”

“You wish. She wouldn’t need to fight, anyways. You’re a photographer and she wanted to be a model.”

Max rubs the side of her nose.

“We should do laundry,” she says.

“Like responsible adults? Yeah, right. See if you can find something suitable in my fashion hole. Rachel left a whole bunch of her outfits here. She’s about your size.”

“But not quite my style.”

Max gets up off the bed and walks toward my closet.

“Max, you don’t have a style. At least give it a try. You can always throw on your pool-scented t-shirt and jeans if it doesn’t work out.”

“I don’t know. I guess it would be cool to try on her clothes, just to see if they fit.”

I jump up off the mattress.

“Seriously, you need to stop second-guessing yourself. Be bold. Be fearless. Let your inner punk rock girl out. You can afford to take chances. For example, I dare you to kiss me.”

Max’s eyes go wide. Her face doesn’t go pale, she doesn’t take a step back, and her eyebrows are definitely not frowning.

“What?” she says.

“Kiss me,” I say. “I double dare you to kiss me right now.”

Time slows. Max reaches out. Her hand goes onto my shoulder, she gains an inch as she goes up onto the balls of her feet, her thin lips meet mine. I take a step back so I don’t freak out.

“Damn, Max. You’re more hardcore than I thought. Now I can text your friend Warren and tell him he doesn’t stand a chance.”

I sit back down on my bed and look for my medicine in my blue tray. I press my shaking legs together.

“You are such a dork,” Max says.

“You better not take that kiss back.”

I find a joint and my lighter. Max finds one of Rachel’s red flannel shirts, a white t-shirt, and a pair of shredded, dark blue jeans. When she returns from the bathroom, she looks like a miniature version of Rachel, if Rachel wore dark hair short and walked around with a book bag.

“Lookin’ sick, Max. A couple tats, some piercings, and we’ll make a thrasher out of you yet.”

“Ready for the mosh pit, shaka brah.”

That sends me over the edge. It’s time for Max to eat breakfast.

“Maybe not. You should go downstairs and say hi to Mom. Free breakfast! I need to…” I take my joint out of my mouth and hold it up in the air. “…wake and bake.”

“I promise not to tell.”

“Let’s not find out. Oh, and when I get downstairs, I’m going to start a fight with Mom. Pretend you’re uncomfortable and have to go to the bathroom, then sneak into the garage and get the dirt on Deputy Dickhead.”

“ _Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bakey!_ ”

“That’s your cue. And don’t feel bad when I come downstairs and start acting catty. It’s just for show.”

“Got it.”

I count of ten, prop my joint up against the lip of my ash tray, then sprint into the bathroom. I don’t know where she got that “shaka brah” shit from. Must be a movie she watched. It doesn’t matter. Her lips were only on mine for half a second, but that’s all I need to set a new world record. After I finish the best joint I’ve ever smoked, I throw on my clothes and head downstairs. Mom and Max are shoulder to shoulder over an old photo album. I mess up my hair and put on my best David face.

“Are you two having a bonding session over how fucked up I am?”

“It’s cool, Chloe,” says Max. “I got it.”

“You got what? Oh…really?”

“Really. Let’s eat.”

Breakfast tastes a lot better when you’re not surrounded by assholes. I’m just finishing up and Max is at the sink washing her plate over Mom’s objections when the front door opens to the sound of clomping boots.

“Breakfast,” says David.

Max and I stare at each other.

“David, you’re back,” says Mom. “Are you all right? You look exhausted.”

“I need to take a nap after writing up vandalism reports all night.”

Max joins me in the dining room. I stand and prepare for the showdown. Might as well get it over with.

“What happened?” Mom asks.

“Some shit-ass punks broke into the main building and possibly the swimming hall as well. If we had those security cameras in place, we’d know exactly who was responsible.”

Boots drop onto the foyer floor. David appears in the living room.

“Is that your Rachel Amber Halloween costume?” he says to Max. “Very funny. You must be remembering what I told you the last time I saw you. Don’t think I don’t recognize you.”

“You know more about Rachel Amber than I do,” Max says. “You know more about everyone than I do because you spy on them. First with photos and now with surveillance cameras.”

“Those cameras should have been approved by the school’s administration,” says David. “It’s for the safety of students while they’re on campus.”

“But they weren’t, so you’re using your own cameras, instead. You’re harassing and accusing students, David. When you do that, they feel _un_ safe. I saw you bullying Kate Marsh when she was going through hell. And then when she went to tell Mr. Jefferson about it, he didn’t believe her. Maybe when I was in the Principal’s office I should have pointed the finger at you, but then I realized that no matter who I point the finger at, you’re there to make sure it comes back to bite me in the ass. That’s why students don’t trust you. You don’t show them the respect you want them to show you.”

“You done, Max?” says David. “You bring pot into my house and you want to lecture me on respect? I think the reason you’re conflicted about all this is because you don’t understand what respect is. I was in the service and—”

“I respect your service,” says Max. “I do _not_ respect the way you treat other people.”

“Do you hear me interrupting you before you’re done talking?” says David.

“Do you see me following Kate and Rachel around on campus, taking photos of them, and storing it away as ‘evidence’?”

“So you went into my personal files,” says David. “I should have known Chloe would get you to do her dirty work for you.”

“Why on earth would you need to keep ‘files’ on students at Blackwell, David?” says Mom.

“I can explain it to you later,” says David.

“Why don’t you explain it to me _now_?”

“Because it’ll be easier without these two jumping all over my ass about it. They don’t understand that sometimes you need to get your hands dirty to clean up the place.”

Mom crosses her arms.

“We’re talking about children who are still in high school.”

“Adults,” says David, looking straight at me.

“Teenage adults. And if this is what your work entails, I will not have you bringing it into this house.”

“I saw it, Joyce,” says Max. “The monitors for your house’s surveillance cameras are in the cupboards in the garage. You can see for yourself.”

“David?” says Mom.

He says nothing.

“Thank you, Max,” Mom says. “I don’t need to see the monitors, the cameras, or the files. In fact, I don’t _want_ to see them. I want all of those cameras out of this house along with anything else having to do with your so-called ‘investigations.’ You have until tomorrow morning. And when I get home from work this evening, you make yourself invisible.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” David grumbles. “I don’t want to see or hear you again, Max. You’ve hurt this family enough.”

My head is in the clouds when Max joins me out in my truck.

“You totally stood up to David,” I say. “And it was even better than last time.”

“Are you in a good mood?”

“Hell yes!”

I peel out of the driveway and head off down the road. I don’t even care where we’re going.

“Good, because I have some heavy news.”

“Hit me.”

Max takes a breath.

“Listen, I know this might be difficult for you to believe, but when I went through David’s laptop, I found pictures of Rachel and Frank…being more than friends.”

My foot hits the accelerator.

“Bullshit,” I say. “I should have known last night and this morning were too good to be true.”

“Chloe, slow down,” says Max.

“There’s no way she could have been trawling the gutter with that shit bag. Maybe she posed for him in exchange for…her habit. Maybe.”

“Why don’t we check out what Frank has in his RV?”

Where the mill used to be? He’s there, sometimes. The beach? Too early in the morning. The junkyard? Maybe. What does he do right about now?

“Breakfast,” I say. I crank the wheel to the right. “Two Whales.”

“We just ate.”

“Not us. Frank.”

Five minutes later we’re at the Two Whales. Sure as shit, Frank’s RV is shitty-parked in the tar-paved wasteland next to the diner. Frank’s greasy mane is parked in the diner booth closest to the window, too hammered to notice anything but his breakfast. I hop out of my truck and walk with Max straight to the porta-potty door that serves as the entrance to Frank’s mobile shit-house.

“We have to be casual ninjas here,” says Max.

I jiggle the door handle. Locked. A dog barks inside.

“Wait here,” Max says.

She disappears into the restaurant.

I know they keep the food waste in the bins out back and that they’re always really fucking nasty. I figure that’s the sort of thing Frank’s dog would be into. I actually climb over the fence and snatch the first thing I see: a leftover bone from a Texas-sized steak. Max is waiting for me when I return.

“Ready?” she says.

“We haven’t even come up with a plan.”

“I know how you think. Three, two, one…”

I hold the bone out in front of Shithead and toss it all the way to the fence. Frank’s dog can’t decide whether to piss himself, shit himself, or do both while slobbering all over his dumpster delight.

“Chloe.”

Max pulls me inside Frank’s ass-mobile. It looks like the inside of a dive bar if said dive bar were also a hotel room with dirty laundry and pizza boxes all over the place. Who doesn’t use their sink for empty beer bottles?

“Gross,” says Max.

“He’s really let this place go,” I say. “And I thought my room was a shithole.”

“You’re not a creepy drug dealer.”

“Frank has issues, but he’s not creepy. There’s no way Rachel would have let him perv out on her.”

I sit down in the driver’s seat behind a windshield-sized sun cover. This would be a quiet place to hang if it didn’t smell like stale beer and man-ass.

“Maybe she was just trying to score a ride after her wheels got taken away,” I say. “If she were desperate enough.”

“We could tear down the highway in this thing,” says Max. “And you’d probably want me to kiss you again. Anyways, let’s find clues about Rachel before Frank or his dog come back.”

“All right. You scout the area while I check his laptop for info.”

I sit down at his dining room table or whatever the hell he calls this thing and start going through his files. I drum my finger against the mouse pad as I wait for his web browser to actually connect to something.

“Crappy internet in here,” I say. “Must take him days to download porn.”

“Gross,” Max calls.

“Tell me about it.”

I click through his browser history. Dogs, dogs, meat, beans, dogs, how to start a web business? You’re shitting me. Max puts a small, leather-bound journal down in front of me. I guess time flies when you’re browsing random bullshit. Max opens the journal. What the fuck is this picture of Rachel with Frank’s dog? Now you have really got to be motherfucking shitting me. Rachel wearing too much makeup sitting behind the wheel of Frank’s RV out on the open road. Rachel thrashing to music in nothing but a red bra and black lace underwear. A warning to Frank written on a blank auto repair estimate form. A love letter written to “Frankie B.” Rachel posing for a picture with Frank who stands behind her with his arms around her.

I don’t even want to have eyes right now. Blowtorch them out of my fucking skull. I am not seeing this shit.

“I can’t believe she was banging Frank,” I say. “Rachel straight up lied to my face. Why would she do that to me?”

“Because she knew how you would react,” says Max.

“Then she wasn’t much of a girlfriend, huh? Just another person who loves me and leaves me. Why does everybody in my life let me down? My dad dies, you bail on me for five years, Mom gets attached at the hip to step-fucker…and now Rachel, of all people, betrays me.”

“Chloe, Rachel is missing. She didn’t betray you.”

“Right, she wasn’t fucking Frank while I sat at home smoking cigarettes waiting for her to finish ‘networking’ at the latest ‘Vortex Club party’. Fuck this shit. Fuck everybody!”

I stand up, push my way past Max, and go straight for Frank’s storage closet. I rummage through it,—fuck your beans, asshole—grab every bag my arms can carry, and blow out the front door. I toss it all into my truck’s cab, then slam the door shut so hard that Frank’s shit-head dog lets out a yelp from over by the fence where he’s still gnawing on that fucking bone I gave him. That little fucker is lucky he’s not in my path, otherwise I’d football kick him between the billboards on the other side of the street. I toss the keys to Frank’s RV onto the roof of the building next door.

“Chloe!” says Max. “He’ll know someone was in his RV.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

Frank’s dog growls again. Fuck you, dog. I grab the bone while it’s still in his mouth and pull on it so hard he goes skittering across the pavement on all four paws. I rip it out of his mouth.

“You want this shit, asshole?”

I wind my arm back behind me and aim for the street.

“Chloe!” says Max. “Don’t!”

Frank’s dog with a tire mark on the side of its body as it lies in the street, lifeless. A crowd of people gathered around. Drivers stopping in the middle of the street and opening their doors to witness the spectacle. Frank with his face in his hands, teary-eyed, being interviewed by police officers and news reporters and Juliet Watson for the _Blackwell Totem_. Nathan and Max standing over the corpse with their cameras. _Click, click, click, click, click._

“I’ll give all you fuckers something to stare at.”

I throw the bone out into the street. I don’t even bother to watch.

“Holy shit, Chloe!”

I get into my truck, slam the door shut, and crank the engine as hard as I can. Max is barely inside before I take off straight back into the street. An oncoming car slams on its brakes. Another pulls to an abrupt stop behind me. I floor it.

“Chloe,” says Max. “Calm down. You almost killed an innocent animal! You can’t keep blaming others for everything that goes wrong in your life. It’s not fair.”

“Rachel was banging that pig. Rachel is missing. Dad never did anything wrong in his life. Dad is dead. Puppy dog dreams about bones all day. Puppy dog gets creamed by a semi. Life is bullshit. There’s no connection between how awesome someone is and how much life completely fucking shits all over them. What fucking part of this is supposed to make sense?”

“Chloe…”

“Is this shit supposed to be my fault? People are dead and missing and I’m the one to blame? Fuck that.”

“Is this supposed to be Rachel’s fault?”

“She was letting that drunk-ass shit-scraper blow his load inside her!”

“Ugh…”

“Right? That’s how fucking gross that shit is! Bitch straight up lied to my face about it, too. That’s the worst thing. Everyone pretends they care until they don’t.” I grip the steering wheel with my hands until my knuckles go white. “Even you.”

“You take that back right _now_ , Chloe Price.”

“Fine. I’m just tired of being punished for no reason. What the fuck have I done to deserve this?”

“It’s not about deserving, Chloe. Things happen that you have no control over. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“If I had just told Dad to take the bus or stay home or called a cab for Mom…”

“You can’t go back in time and do that,” Max says.

“Mom blames herself, too. All she wanted was a ride home. She tells me sometimes, ‘I should have walked or asked one of the waitresses for a ride.’ She once launched into some bullshit about giving a trucker a ride in exchange for a ride.”

“She was that messed up about it?”

“Yeah.”

“Just like you are right now. You’re saying things you don’t actually believe.”

“Understanding that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

I’ve been driving so fast that we’re already at Blackwell. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t have anything else to say. The universe needs to dissolve itself into nothingness so I never have to do or say or think anything ever again.

“There’s nothing worse than waiting for your father to come home and he never does,” I say. “You don’t have to live with that.”

“I was there when it happened, Chloe,” says Max.

“I wish that made me feel better. But ever since that day, my life has been dipped in shit.”

“We can change that. We can make things right. Since I’ve been back, you’ve changed my life for the better. That has to count for something.”

“Counting doesn’t mean shit. My life is an oven with no temperature control—everything comes out burned and covered in black shit no matter how awesome it was when it entered. I don’t want you to be a part of that.”

“Chloe,” says Max. She puts her hand on my arm. I tense up at her touch. “I need you with me. I need to be a part of whatever shit is going on in your life, no matter how shitty. Rachel needs you, too.”

“I’d like to believe that. I’d like to believe in something after all that’s happened, just to make me feel better. But…I don’t.”

I stare out the windshield, holding back my tears. I don’t want Max to see me cry. She slides out of the truck. As soon as she closes the door, I take off.

No matter how fast I sail, I’ll never be able to escape the ocean of grief inside me.


	51. Chapter 51

I walk my ass up to the lighthouse, not caring whether I trip and fall and stumble all the way down the bottom of the hill to bleed out until the sun goes down because nobody is around to find me. That might even be preferable to what I’m about to do. I’m going to sit on the bench overlooking the ocean and inhale the contents of every single one of Frank’s bags until the sun swallows me whole or I melt into the ground beneath me or my legs, entirely of their own volition, walk me off the edge of the cliff and into the waiting arms of an uncaring sea that swallows everything whole and turns it into kelp and algae no matter what it was when it entered. In my mind, any of those things would be better than shoving a handful of dried mushrooms into my face and chewing until I’m drooling out of the corners of my mouth. My vision fades at the edges, turns to ashes, lights on fire, crumbles into cinders. What am I looking at? The ocean. A television screen in front of me stretching as far as the eye can see. It compresses, condenses, narrows itself down in time and space to a rectangular picture frame resting on top of a dresser who knobs and drawers I’ve never seen before and beneath the crushing weight of a ceiling that presses down on me so hard I can’t move my arms, my legs, or even my shoulders. My head is the only thing that moves, and every time it does, a tube stapled to my throat moves along with it. What the hell have I done to myself?

“Chloe, you have a visitor.”

“Dad?”

I’m crying when he enters. I don’t know why.

“Don’t be sad, sweetheart. An old friend has come to visit.”

“Is it Rachel?”

“Who’s Rachel?”

Dad helps me out of bed and into my chair. Straps go over my feet, my ankles, my waist, my chest, my wrists, my hands. I can’t move any of them, so I don’t know where the hell anyone expects me to run off to. While Dad works through these endless preparations, I find myself staring out the window: the mural out in the back yard is so faded it’s just a piece of plywood now. I wish I could go out there for a closer look.

It takes me a while to figure out how to move this thing: tilting my head one way moves me backwards, the other way moves me forwards. I navigate past obnoxious walls and asshole corners that until now I had never really given a second glance. Max greets me at the front door by taking a step back with her hand over her mouth. I’m so exhausted from dealing with my house’s interior architecture that I can’t do anything but smile.

“Max, I’m so glad you came back,” I say.

“Chloe…I…”

“You two must have a lot of catching up to do,” says Dad. “Why don’t you take her out for a walk? Joyce and I have been so busy with work lately that we haven’t had an opportunity to take her around to see the sights. A trip down to the beach might not be a bad idea.”

“Sure,” Max says. “That is, if Chloe doesn’t mind.”

“Mind?” I say. “That’s the only thing I have left that still works. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

“Just be careful,” says Dad. “Chloe doesn’t regulate her body temperature very well. Make sure you come right home as soon as you feel even a little bit cold. I’ll leave her in your hands, Max.”

“Thank you, William. We won’t be long.”

“Let’s roll,” I say. “Sorry. Bad pun.”

We make our way down to the beach in silence, mostly because I don’t know what to say. Max doesn’t normally wear red sweater vests and pinstripe shirts. She probably isn’t used to seeing me like this, either. When the blanket draped over my legs hits a snag on the boardwalk leading down to the beach, Max adjusts it for me and asks the question that’s been written all over her face since she saw me.

“How…”

“Dad got me a car for my sixteenth birthday. I decided I didn’t like it, so I traded it in for an economy model.”

“How can you be so casual about this?”

“I’m trapped in a body that doesn’t work from the neck down. You learn to make peace with a lot of things.”

“I’m so sorry. I feel like I’m responsible.”

“For me getting demolished by a semi? What would you have done, direct traffic? I feel bad for the car. At least I’m still in one piece. Besides, moving to Seattle was your parents’ decision. Kids can’t exactly take off on interstate road trips to their hometown any time they feel like it. I’m just glad you came back.”

“I’m glad, too. The sun is beautiful when it’s setting like this.”

“What do photographers call it?”

“The ‘golden hour’. It’s the perfect time to take pictures.”

“You should take a self-portrait. That totally sounds like something you’d do.”

“Not without you, of course.”

Max takes a photo of the two of us. She looks so cute her fancy clothes, especially with the setting sun as our backdrop. Seeing myself together with her again means the world to me. I feel like I might cry, but the tears turn to ice before they ever leave my eyes.

“My nose is getting cold,” I say. “We should go back.”

“Lead the way. Are…those beached whales on the other side of the bay?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Kindred spirits, me and them.”

Dad helps me into a bed that looks like some sort of Space Age medical technology, just like all the other gadgets and machinery that fill up my bedroom. Now that I think about it, this must have been David’s man cave. A “Toxic Chemicals” door sign marks the entrance to my garage-sized bathroom.

“I’ll leave you two be,” says Dad.

“So, here we are,” I say. “Home, seat, home. As in, I spend most of my waking hours on my ass. Well, more like off my ass. Speaking of which, could you grab me some morphine from the shelf up there? Dad keeps it where I can’t get to it. In other words, any place that isn’t right in front of my face.”

“Anything.”

“Anything? Make it a double, then.”

“Maybe we should just try one and see how you’re doing.”

Max puts a tablet under my tongue. It starts dissolving immediately. I don’t feel anything.

“You have an awesome movie library,” she says. “Should we watch something?”

“Yeah. How about Blade Runner? I haven’t seen that in, like, ten days.”

“You got it, sister.”

“Please, Max. You can do better than that.”

“Did you want to watch something else?”

“Never mind. Just pop it in. And try not to fall asleep. Oh, wow. It’s kicking in. I might beat you to that nap after all. Roll credits.”

Max dozes off before the opening sequence is done. I fall asleep at the sight of Priss’s bangs. When I wake, Max still has her head on whatever part of my body that is down there. I watch flocks of birds swirl about in the sky until Max lifts her head from my bed.

“I can see you didn’t take my advice,” I say. “What do they call it when someone tells you not to do something and then you immediately do the thing they just told you not to do?”

“I think they call that life.”

“Mad Max dropping the bombs today.”

“The only bomb I dropped was on myself. I think I must have been tired from all that time-tripping.”

“I know. This must be a blast from the past, seeing your old friend. How long has it been?”

She runs her fingers through my hair like I’m a cat.

“I swear to you, I am never leaving your side again. I’m sorry…”

“Relax, Max. I bet you set out mousetraps and then apologize to the mice when you catch them. We’re together again. That’s all that matters.”

“We’ll always be together.”

“Seeing you again has made me the happiest I’ve been in a long time. And now, what little I have left is fading.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t keep this up forever. Eventually, this is all going to become too much to bear. We’re in denial about the inevitable.”

“You can’t give up.”

“It’s not your choice to make, any more than this…” I point at the room by rolling my head. “…was my choice. But you can do something to help me so I don’t have to suffer any more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take that photo album next to the TV and let me look at it.”

She opens it up in my lap. I haven’t seem some of these pictures in years: me and Max running through sprinklers, eating hot dogs, playing with Bongo, Uncle Aaron in the kitchen, Max dressed up as a pirate…

“I want these memories of us together to be the last thing I see. Put as many morphine tablets as you can under my tongue.”

Makes shakes her head.

“No. You can’t do this to me. You can’t ask me to do this.”

“Please, Max. I’m so tired of this shit. Being trapped here is a fate worse than death. Show me the mercy that life never did.”

Tears flood Max’s eyes. They spill all over her shirt, my blanket. Her nose runs.

“That’s us dressed up as pirates,” I say. “We were going to take over Arcadia Bay. After that, we were going to kick the world’s booty.”

“We still can. I’ll spend every waking hour with you. We’ll do all the things you ever wanted to.”

“That’s us in the kitchen,” I say, “after you ate all the chocolate chips. Lucky for you, Dad had a backup plan.”

“So do I, but it’s not working.”

Blood runs down onto Max’s pinstripe shirt. She doesn’t even try to stem the flow coming from her nose.

“I can’t save you this time. It hurts, Chloe. It really hurts.”

Her fingers fidget with the fabric of her pants. The plain black string tied around her right wrist remains perfectly still.

“And you don’t walk away from eternity just because it hurts,” I say. “All right, First Mate. Take my hand and tell me all about those adventures we used to have.”

Max takes my hand in hers—and kisses me. She stops when I remind her that her nose is still bleeding.

“Sorry. I was just…so happy.”

She wipes off my face, changes my blanket, and changes into one of my shirts from the dresser. It’s a size too big for her, but that’s nothing compared to the tall tales she tells me about the adventures of Captain Bluebeard and Long Max Silver…

I’m out in the backyard locked in a life-or-death saber duel with a phantom scally-wag. Long Max Silver calls out from the heights of the haunted mansion where she’s battling buccaneer ghosts and tormented swashbuckler spirits in her search for the fabled mariner’s crystal that serves as the key to digging up the ancient buried treasure on Cold Feet Island.

“You’re one in a million, Chloe Price.”

Who in the world is she talking about? My thoughts distract me long enough to allow my foe to strike me in the arm with a devastating saber thrust. I disengage, clutching my wounded limb, and retreat to the navigation wheel beneath the Jolly Roger flying high above my swing set Man O’ War. My First Mate leaps from the mansion’s rafters onto the poop deck of our vessel just in time to escape the armada of cutlass-waving assailants on our aft quarters.

It’s while Long Max Silver is scouting the terrain that I realize exactly what she meant with that statement. Someone once told me I’m one in a hundred infinities—the kind of thing you might say while working your way through a bottle of rum and staring up at the stars in the night sky. One in a million, though…that’s something you can count. Something you can rely on.

I put my arms around her as if I’m never going to let her go.

“I love you, too, Max.”


	52. Chapter 52

I sit up on my mattress. Max is next to me, fast asleep. My mouth is a desert. I down half a bottle of water and start on one of the bottled coffee mixes sitting on my desk. My laptop—Rachel’s laptop—has ten different windows open on the screen: coordinates, maps, news articles, web searches. Max must have been up half the night looking for Rachel while I was up on top of Mount Dipshit trying to shroom-trip over the cliff’s edge and into the next life. Looks like that didn’t work out. I just wonder how Max managed to carry me down the hill to my truck and then up the stairs to my room. I try to wrap my head around whatever Max was researching when she passed out.

“Chloe! You're alive! Yes!”

She squeezes my midsection so tightly I have trouble breathing. Considering the amount of coffee Max has inhaled—four empty bottles on the windowsill—I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she's a bit loopy. Her bed-hair rests against my bare shoulder. I’d purr like a cat if I could feel anything right now.

“Down, Max,” I say. “You get one kiss and you’re all over me.”

“I'm just…so glad you're here.”

“Well, thanks for the morning grope.” I yawn so hard my jaw pops. “What did you find in your investigations? Shit, I’m starting to sound like David.”

“Unlike David, we have a specific objective.”

Max looks over the mess of pictures, coordinates, texts, log book entries, and numbers taped up all over our old mural board.

“When did that get up here?” I ask.

“You helped me carry it after I found you up at the lighthouse singing along to some pop song nobody else could hear.”

“Singing? Holy shit, I must have been tripping balls.”

“The important thing is that you’re back. I have a whole bunch of evidence, but we need a way to decipher Frank’s transactions and pinpoint Nathan’s location at the times of those transactions.”

“Frank keeps a client list,” I say. “I’ve seen it before. Pretty dumb thing for someone like him to do, but I guess old habits die hard.”

“We need to get it from him.”

“Sure, let’s just go ask for it.”

“Done. Now, here’s the big one: we need to search Nathan’s dorm room.”

“Wait, wait, wait. I was just kidding about asking Frank. And you want to infiltrate the boys’ dormitory, too? Am I supposed to let Nathan take creepy photos of me again while you search his shit? This plan just keeps getting better and better. Exactly how many impossible things are we going to have to do?”

“Just two. And they’re not impossible. Let’s hit the dorms first. With any luck, Nathan won’t be around this early in the morning.”

I roll out onto quiet streets. My truck makes them louder.

“So, do you have a GPS on Nathan or something?” I say. “I really do not want to see him when we get to Blackwell.”

“No, but David does. He has GPS devices on a bunch of different—whoa, shit.” Max puts one hand against the dashboard to steady herself. “Chloe?”

“I knew it!”

I whip open my door and pull one of my lock-picking tools out of my jacket.

“We’re literally in the middle of the street,” says Max. “What if another car comes by?”

“They won’t need a GPS to know where we are. Help me look for this fucker.”

“Where do we look?”

“Just run your hand along the bottom of the truck and tell me if you feel anything strange.”

Front bumper, wheel rims, wheel wells, frame, rear bumper—nothing. Max shrugs her shoulders.

“Give me your flashlight.”

Max hands me her phone with the light set to full retinal blast. I run it underneath my truck: there, stuck in one corner is a small, silver, rectangular device. With some effort, I’m able to separate the adhesive backing.

“Don’t you want to get rid of that?” she says. “David’s using it to track your location.”

“I know. I’m going to staple it to Nathan’s balls when I see him. That dickwad has info and we’re going to find it.”

“You aren’t serious about getting into his pants, are you?”

“Who said anything about ‘in’? Max, it’s time for you to learn about the science of Heisenberg’s direct stapler-to-crotch approach.”

“Heisenberg? Didn’t he come up with the Uncertainty Principle?”

“He sure did. Who knows what’s going to happen when Nathan takes a GPS to the family jewels? Hence, the uncertainty.”

As a courtesy to Max, I park my truck between the lines of a non-handicapped parking space when we get to Blackwell.

“So, are we going to have fight our way through hordes of guys asking you out to the Halloween dance?” I say.

“Ugh. Let’s just get in there, find what we’re looking for, and get the hell out.”

A brown-haired guy in glasses too old to be a student approaches us from the dormitories.

“There’s your first would-be suitor,” I say.

“As if!” she hisses. “That’s Mister Jefferson, my photography instructor.”

“Well, that explains the actual sense of style, then.” _Mister_ Jefferson stops in front of us. “You’re too well-dressed to be a student around here.”

“I’m afraid not everyone would agree with you on that one,” says Mr. Jefferson. “A black suit jacket and white dress shirt are hardly the epitome of fashion. It’s more of a…stylistic expression, I guess you could call it. Speaking of _selfie_ -expression, Max…”

“Hi, Mr. Jefferson,” says Max.

“You know her so well,” I say.

“I do, indeed,” says Mr. Jefferson. “Max’s unique style makes her unforgettable. But I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure, Miss…”

“This is my friend Chloe,” says Max.

“Yo,” I say.

“Chloe,” says Mr. Jefferson. “Why isn’t someone who’s cool enough to be hanging out with Max going to school here at Blackwell?”

“I was actually too cool for Blackwell,” I say. “Way too cool. It’s a long story.”

“I can imagine,” says Mr. Jefferson. “Max, are you doing all right? I know that recent events must be weighing on you heavily.”

She grabs at the strap of her book bag.

“It’s just…weird being on campus, like everything’s normal. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“So photograph it,” says Mr. Jefferson. “’The whole point of taking pictures is so you don’t have to explain things with words.’ Elliot Erwitt.”

“Yeah,” says Max. “But there’s so much going on in my life right now.”

“Don’t be afraid to use your camera to connect with it,” says Mr. Jefferson. “You create those moments, those glimpses of reality that reveal to you more about humanity than what lies within the picture frame.”

“You’re right,” says Max. “’In photography there is a reality so subtle that it becomes more than reality.’”

“Alfred Stieglitz,” says Mr. Jefferson with a smile.

“I just think there’s _too_ much going on in my life,” Max says.

“I understand,” says Mr. Jefferson. “When the spirit takes you, slow down for a moment, and capture that moment. You’ll be glad you did. And on that note, Blackwell duty calls. I’ll be announcing the winner of the ‘Everyday Heroes’ contest at the party tonight, so I hope you’ll be there to celebrate. Even though I’m sorry you didn’t enter a photo, I can understand your reasons for not doing so. You can’t force an artist to work.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” says Max. “I’ll try to stop and smell the roses. Then photograph them.”

“I’m sure you will,” says Mr. Jefferson. “And, Max: I’m still proud of you. Proud of you for caring so much about a troubled friend. I think Chloe’s lucky to have someone like you.”

“I’m her date for the party tonight,” I say. “You’d better dance with us at least once.”

Mr. Jefferson laughs.

“You wouldn’t want to see this old hipster make a fool out of himself trying to keep up with you. I have that much pride, at least. Be seeing you.”

“Man,” I say, “you two photography nerds were all over each other.”

“Shut up!” says Max. She shoves me in the shoulder. “You are out of control.”

The decor of the boys’ floor of the dormitories hasn’t improved at all since the last time I was here with Rachel at one of her shitty parties: the map of the room layout is covered in less-than-amateur graffiti, the carpets have stains all over them, and the bathroom smells like the toilets have taken shits of their own into the shower drains.

“Wait here,” says Max. “Give me the signal if you see anyone.”

“Yes, Bat-Max. I won’t let you down.”

“That’s why you’re so hot,” says a girl’s voice from one of the rooms. “Because you care.”

All right, so in addition to nose plugs I’m going to need ear plugs. Maybe I should just knock myself out with the nearest heavy object. Max returns before I can figure out how to open the fire extinguisher cabinet.

“I was starting to get worried,” I say.

“Were you worried about me?”

“No, I was worried that I would have to sit here and listen to Dana’s post-coital poetry jam. Did you find what we need?”

“His room was clean…and creepy. Check it out.”

Max holds up a plastic bag with a phone inside it.

“He keeps his phone inside a—”

Nathan blows through the doors I was supposed to be keeping an eye on. He takes a gun out of his waistband and is about to point it straight at me when some kid whose hair looks like he just got out of bed karate kicks the gun out of Nathan’s hand.

“What the fuck?”

And then the kid punches Nathan right in the face, sending him to the ground with his hands covering his eyes like he’s just glimpsed the interior of the Lost Ark and he’s trying to stop his face from melting. The kid turns to Max, smiles, and gives her a thumbs-up straight out of some anime.

“Don’t worry, Max,” he says. “I got this.”

“You got what,” I say, “a dude who’s already on the floor?”

“Warren, look out!” says Max.

Warren’s Super Saiyan transformation sequence has given Nathan enough time to stagger up to his feet again—just in time for Captain Cool to go full pro-wrestling on his ass and head-butt him as hard as he can. The sound of their skulls hitting is disgusting. Warren takes a step back and clutches his head. Nathan goes down to the ground on his ass, then collapses onto his side.

“You are so fucking dead!” says Nathan from the fetal position.

Warren stands over him, raises his arms to an invisible crowd, then kicks Nathan in the stomach two, four, eight, I don’t know how many times. I take the opportunity to grab Nathan’s gun, shove it into my jeans, grab Max by the wrist, and haul her ass out of there.

“Chloe, stop! What if Warren kills him?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Out in the courtyard, students are lounging, reading, chatting, and laughing, completely oblivious to the beatdown in progress just behind closed doors. Never mind—Max’s boyfriend is already outside with us. He looks like he just came out of surgery.

“Glad I could be there for you, Max,” he says. “Nathan Prescott thinks he can bully whoever he wants.”

“Dude, you rock,” I say.

“Yes,” says Max. “Thank you, Warren.”

“Need any help with your other problems?” says Warren. “I could stick with you, just in case you need me to get my Hulk on again.”

“Thanks for the offer,” says Max, “but Chloe and I need to do this on our own.”

I put one hand around Max’s shoulders and the other on her collarbone.

“Sorry, Warren,” I say with my best anime smile. “Hope you understand.”

One person who will not be smiling, however, is Frank. He will not be smiling when I text him, will not be smiling when he sees my truck roll up to his mobile shit-home, and will absolutely not be smiling when we meet face-to-face.

[10/10/2013 03:35PM] Chloe: I have your money  
[10/10/2013 03:35PM] Frank: beach, 3100, now  
[10/10/2013 03:35PM] Frank: do not fuck with me

I’m actually wearing my seat belt for once, not speeding, and not even smoking. I’m driving with both hands on the steering wheel and both feet on the floor, so the flashing lights in my rear view mirror are setting off all kinds of alarm bells in my head. Turns out my tabs are expired. The officer lets me off with a warning not to go down to the beach because they’ve observed suspicious activity in the area. For whatever reason, Max makes me turn around and go sit in a parking lot three miles away for half an hour. Frank is twelve different kinds of pissed off. He actually calls me.

“How the fuck should I know?” I say. “They told us to avoid the beach. Well, golly gee, Frank, why the fuck would they say that? Because _I’m_ suspicious? Are you fucking serious? You fill waiting room candy dishes with LSD breath mints and you’re trying to blame _me_ for this shit? Yeah, we’re waiting for shit to cool down. _You_ tell _me_. Just text me when the coast is clear.”

My phone goes onto the floor. Five minutes later, the coast is magically clear. I pull up next to the woods about fifty feet away from Frank’s shitty RV on a somewhat less shitty section of the beach overlooking people-sized wooden posts, shopping bags, plastic water jugs, and whale-shaped bulges half a mile distant.

“Listen, Chloe,” says Max. “I can tell you for a fact that this will not go well.”

“A conversation with Frank won’t go well? Gosh, Max, what would make you say that?”

“Get rid of the gun.”

“That’s actually a good idea.”

I toss the gun, magazine and all, into the woods where I can find it later if I need to. We walk around to the other side of Frank’s RV. I take a breath, then rap my knuckles against the door, three times, as hard as I can. Frank doesn’t respond to anything less than—the door slams open.

“Oh, look, the Wonder Twins.” He points at me. No bracelet on his wrist, this time. “You should have come alone.”

“She’s my partner,” I say.

“Well that didn’t take long, did it? Let’s get down to business: where’s my fucking money?”

“I burned it when I found out you went to the cops and pointed the finger at Max.”

“That shit. Yeah, some asshole freaked out about a sale and tried to frame me. Only thing he got for his efforts was a one-way ticket out of town.”

“Bullshit,” I say.

“Frank,” says Max. “Let’s just forget about all that. We’re looking for Rachel.”

“Well, Annie Oakley, nobody’s found her by now, so she ain’t gonna be found. And what makes you think I’m just going to forget about three grand?”

“Because I worked for it,” I say.

“We can find Rachel if you give us the names of some of your clients,” says Max.

“Oh, is that all? Well, shit. Why didn’t you just tell me? I would have printed them off for you and sent them to you in the mail along with a nice little Christmas card and some scented fucking hand soap.”

“Listen, Frank,” says Max. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, but this is important. We’re trying to figure out what happened to Rachel. We know you don’t know where she went. That’s not what this is about. Something bigger is going on here. Something that’s going to destroy this city.”

“Good riddance. And like I said, Rachel doesn’t want to be found.”

“But if you help us out, we might be able to find out who’s responsible and at least bring them to justice. We have information that can help us pinpoint where she was when these deals went down. We won’t say a word to anyone and we’ll give you the list back when we’re done. Please, Frank.”

“You pulled a fucking gun on me in the junkyard, kid. And if you hadn’t just toddled there in a pair of training pants—”

“I know you were banging her,” I say.

“She came to me, Chloe. I didn’t go looking for her. She told me you shot her down. She was all messed up about it.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“So are you. I was wondering why your girlfriend here wore one of Rachel’s outfits to the diner. Now I know.”

I look at Max.

“Yeah, kid,” he says, “you kinda remind me of her. You still look like shit in her clothes. Wait here.”

Frank disappears into his RV. When he returns, he holds out a scrap of paper to Max. He snatches it away when she reaches for it. He points at me.

“Before I give this to you, I want to know about you and Rachel.”

“Since when do you want to know anything beyond who needs what and for how much?”

“What she and I had was…I don’t how to describe it. The words would probably be wasted on you, anyways. This stuff right here, this could come back to bite me in the ass. So, before I part with my personal information, I need yours.”

“No deal, Frank. I’m pretty sure I can figure out your names, anyways. Chihuahua, Tonk, Dozer—I know how your mind works.”

“I should have figured it was you two clowns who ransacked my shit. You went into my personal space and took something that doesn’t belong to you, tossed my keys, almost killed my baby. Now, you owe me. Rachel’s the only reason I haven’t cut that smart-ass face of yours.”

“Max…”

“Chloe, I know it hurts, but the payoff will be worth it.”

“Help me out here, First Mate.”

“I know you can steer this ship. I’ll follow you anywhere, Captain. You’re one in a million.”

“Oh, my bleeding heart,” says Frank.

“Fine,” I say. “Three questions.”

“You had all the time in the world to take whatever you wanted from my place.”

“Life isn’t fair, Frank. Better make your questions good ones.”

“All right. Did you two ever do the deed?”

“Seriously? You were her first.”

“Were you ever intimate?”

“God…” Max stares at me. I close my eyes. “Yeah.”

“So I wasn’t her first.”

“So what? Maybe I wasn’t her first, either.”

Frank grunts.

“Why did you two split?”

“She was busy. She had other, better things to do with her time.”

“Like what?”

“Like hang out with the Vortex Club. I wasn’t a bad enough Bad Girl for her.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“Final question: were you working with her father?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me. You look at your friend when you lie.”

Max puts her hand on her arm and looks at the trees. I take a deep breath.

“He asked me not to tell her about the shit that went down with Sera. I didn’t tell her anything. He asked me to tell him about her drug habits and roll over on her sources. I didn’t tell him anything. When she disappeared, I got desperate and told him about the shit she was holding in some medical bag. She told me you stole it, but she got picked up with it on campus by the cops. Her dad said he pulled strings to get her out of it.”

Frank’s face goes slack. He nods his head.

“You say anything to the pigs when they pulled you over?”

“Why the fuck would I say anything to Nathan Prescott’s personal bodyguards?”

“I thought maybe you came here with a recording device. You showed up without the money, I figured you were working for somebody.”

“Just myself. Us. Me and Max.”

“Yeah. Just like Rachel. Working for us. Me and her. Lied to you, but didn’t say anything to the pigs about me. That’s how I know she cared.”

“What was in the bag, anyways?”

“Question time is over. Take this before I change my mind.”

“Thank you, Frank,” says Max. “I promise we’ll bring it back. And we’ll let you know what we find out.”

“Keep it,” he says. “Better yet, burn it. If the cops do decide they have a problem, I want them on your ass, not mine.”

“If they do find it,” I say, “I’ll just tell them it belongs to Damon Merrick.”

Frank scowls.

“You’d better get out of here before your dog starts barking again,” he says to Max. From inside the RV, Frank’s dog lets out a sad howl. “Be quiet, Pompidou. You ate before you took your nap. I feed you again, you’ll shit all over the floor. Just like someone else I know.”


	53. Chapter 53

Rachel’s last known location is an abandoned barn out in the middle of the country. Sherlock Max was able to pinpoint the location by cross-referencing the longitude and latitude printouts from David’s tracking device on Nathan’s truck with the timestamps of Nathan’s text exchanges with Frank as well as the dates and times associated with Nathan’s code name (”Rottweiler”) in Frank’s transaction history. It all points to a plot of land that used to belong to the Prescotts but was recently reclaimed by the city via eminent domain, also known as “we’re going to take your shit now.” It’s a very convenient way for wealthy assholes to disclaim any and all responsibility for any shady activities that might be going on there.

“Fresh tire tracks,” says Max. “Someone’s been here recently.”

“And they probably didn’t come here to eat the frozen pizza they got at the gas station. We need to get inside before they come back.”

“Let’s see what we can dig up. You figure out the lock and I’ll look around back.”

No sooner do I have the metal padlock in my hands than Max calls me.

“Found it!”

Around the corner, near the back of the barn, there’s a Max-sized hole in the wooden siding. Sunlight floods in through the gaps between pine slats, casting their glow over a decrepit tractor, wooden barrels, cords of rotting lumber, boxes stacked on shelves, and an unlocked wooden storage chest. It’s filled with old newspaper clippings and documents.

“You think any of this stuff will help us figure out what’s going on?” I say. “‘Harry Aaron Prescott and family donate new library to Arcadia Bay.’ ‘Prescott Industries celebrate grand opening.’ ‘The Prescotts bring bomb shelter boom to town.’”

“Why would they do that?” says Max as she kneels down beside me. “Do they plan on nuking this place from orbit?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. If they can’t own it, they’ll disown it.”

“Keep looking. I’ll scout the area.”

“Roger that.”

I sift through the chest—nothing but monuments to the stupidity of human beings.

“Hey, Chloe!” Max stands atop a walkway near the arched ceiling. “Can you take the hook hanging from that pulley and attach it to the padlock down there?”

I move straw aside with my foot. The padlock’s U-shaped metal bar is just big enough to accommodate a giant, cast iron hook.

“All right,” says Max. “Get away from the hatch completely.”

An old farm machine plunges from where Max stands and snaps the lock off the double doors. They’re so heavy it takes both of us to open one of them. White concrete steps descend into a sterile antechamber.

“Jackpot,” I say.

“Jackpot?” says Max. “That’s what you say when you discover something good. Do I even need to say how weird this is?”

We’re greeted by a huge metal door bearing a giant metal vertical bar and a stainless steel pirate ship navigation wheel, the kind you see in bank heist movies. Max examines the keypad next to the door.

“Some of these numbers are faded,” she says.

She’s almost as fast as Brooke when it comes to typing. A little green light comes on. Something shifts into place.

“I thought that shit only worked in the movies,” I say.

“In the movies, they usually get caught.”

It takes thirty seconds to crank the giant wheel into position. Max and I pull on the giant metal bar. We’re met with a scene straight out of a post-apocalyptic survival movie: blank white wall tiles flank rows of shelves stocked with non-perishable items. Further in, there’s a furnace, a sink, and…duct tape?

“Stocked and ready for a nuclear winter,” I say. “This place must have cost a fortune.”

A gauzy white curtain parts into a larger room filled with photography equipment, a sleek desktop computer, a giant printer, steel black cabinets, messed up black and white photos of naked bodies bound and bleeding, a full-color, hand-drawn poster of some chick with her viscera coming out through her throat…

“Max, this is seriously fucked up. Can you imagine chilling in this room?”

“This wouldn’t exactly be your chill zone,” says Max.

A massive white screen covers the rear of the room from floor to ceiling. In the center of it, a fancy black tripod stands watch over a solitary black chair. Must be where Nathan takes his fucked up pictures. Max opens up one of the oversized black cabinets.

“Chloe…”

“What’s up?”

“Lynn, Kelly, Kate, Victoria…red binders with girls’ names on them.”

I’m standing next to Max before she finishes her sentence.

“That fucker was taking photos of them while they were passed out, I bet. Son of a bitch.”

Max grabs the last two binders and walks them over to the computer desk. She opens up ‘Victoria’—nothing. The next one is ‘Kate.’

“Oh, no…” Max covers her mouth. “Kate…”

Photos of Kate, eyes glazed, arms bound, like the blown up photos on the wall but without the blood. Fucked up, ornate, cursive poetry verses written in white pen above and below the photos of her lifeless, conscious body on black pages.

“I should have killed that motherfucker back there,” I say.

“Kate wasn’t the first,” says Max. “There are rows of binders filled with other victims. Victoria must be next. He must be planning to dose her tonight at the Vortex Club Party.”

“Those two are like brother and sister. Why the fuck would he do that? He must be out of his mind.”

I take the red binder with no name on it, the one lying on its side at the end of the row, and toss it onto the desk.

A close-up of Rachel’s bare neck. Her head is turned to the side. Her eyes are closed.

A body shot of Rachel in a t-shirt and jean shorts sitting down, hunched over bent legs. Her wrists and ankles are bound with duct tape. Her hair is wet. Her eyes are open. She looks furious.

An overhead shot of Nathan lying down on Rachel’s stomach, pretending to sleep. Rachel’s eyes are closed, her arms crooked, her legs splayed out at unnatural angles.

“Those are all posed shots, right, Max? Nobody falls asleep or even passes out like that. You’re a photographer. Those are posed, right?”

Max puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Chloe, look at her face. She’s…out of it.”

“Maybe…maybe Nathan paid her a shitload of cash to do this. She would have done it. Maybe she slept with him for money, posed with him for money, I…I don’t know…she would have done it, right?”

I turn the page. Nathan with his arms around Rachel in a shallow hole in the ground. Above them, a mound of fresh dirt and a shovel.

“Why is he putting her in the ground like that?” Max says. “Where—”

“That’s the junkyard. I’ve been there a million times. She must have posed for that shit. That’s what art is, right? Making shit seem like it’s the real thing for dramatic and…fucking emotional effect?”

Max doesn’t say anything. She just nods her head, puts her hands on my shaking hands.

“Let’s fucking go,” I say.

I drive to the junkyard at a thousand miles an hour. I don’t give a fuck about police, traffic, traffic signals, stop signs, hand gestures, seat belts, any of that shit. I blow straight through the open junkyard gates, taking one of them off at the hinges because the wind decided to blow it into the front of my truck. I skid to a stop in front of the spot I saw in Nathan’s picture and jump out.

I forgot to bring a shovel, so I claw at the ground with my bare hands. Dirt cakes beneath my bloody fingernails.

“Are you going to help me, Max?”

Breaking up the hard October earth is slow, too slow. Max helps me crack open the surface. Once we get deeper, things are a little easier. A couple feet down, we hit something that feels like a sack of rice. I will my tired arms to keep working. We uncover a small, blue section of thick plastic.

“It’s a tarp,” says Max.

I take out one of my metal ear wax cleaners and stab at it. It’s worn enough that I’m able to hook open a small hole just big enough to put my fingers into. I pull with all my might, struggling against fabric that makes a jagged ripping sound as it yields. I’m met with the most god-awful smell of cat piss and horse shit and rancid manure I’ve ever smelled in my fucking life. Max turns over on one side, vomiting her brains out. I let loose this morning’s coffee and bagel breakfast onto the junkyard’s dirt floor. I keep retching until I’m dry heaving. Max lies on her side next to her puddle of vomit. She pushes herself up onto one elbow. I slide myself back over to the hole in the tarp and the horrible stench coming from it. I use both hands to rip it open as wide as I can—a faded, checkered blue flannel shirt sleeve.

I collapse. My eyes are an ocean. My body is a furnace. My mind is the void between the stars.

“This isn’t real, Max. This can’t be real. Why would someone do this to Rachel? Why her?”

“Chloe…”

I can barely feel Max’s hands on my head, my arm.

“I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m so sorry.”

Max turns away from me to vomit again. She pushes her palms into the dirt, heaving up lunch and breakfast and yesterday’s dinner and hydrochloric acid and breath vapors and chunks of her brain. My eyes bore a hole into the hood of her grey sweatshirt.

“I loved her so much.”

_Our first night together, really together with each other. Neither of us knew anything about anything. We ran into the shower and back without getting caught._

“How can she be dead?”

_Rachel smiling as Laurie inked her calf tattoo, then one on her wrist. I watched her the entire time. We hardly touched each other for the next three weeks while her skin healed._

“What kind of world does this?”

_Rachel sitting side-saddle on my front lawn as I sketched her portrait. I never did get to finish that one. I was high on six sodas. Rachel was high on autumn breezes. That’s the way I want to remember her._

“Who does this?”

_Take your revenge, in this life or the next._

I look around. Max’s eyes are bloodshot. Her breath is heavy.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll do it.”

I will myself to stand up.

“Do what?”

“Revenge. It’s the only thing left.”

Max stares at me, pushes herself up to a squatting position, stands up on shaky legs.

“I’m with you,” she says.

Max insists on coming with me when I drive back to the beach where I tossed Nathan’s gun before our encounter with Frank. The magazine holds sixteen bullets. I hope that’s enough to shatter Nathan’s cranium. When I get home, I chain-smoke blunts until Max stops me. I think about switching to cigarettes, then to some of David’s whiskey, and then I’m adrift on a sea of fevered dreams so it doesn’t fucking matter.

_I fire three rounds into the picture of Nathan and Rachel I took from her bedroom wall. All three hit Nathan in the face. I pick up the shell casings and toss them into a desk drawer. Maybe I’ll make another necklace out of them. I finish off a light beer, then smash the bottle against my skull. Blood runs from my forehead down my nose and onto my bedroom floor._

_“Holy shit, Chloe.”_

_Max dabs a wad of toilet paper above my eyes. She grabs my gun-toting wrist with her other hand. I tense up and hiss like a cat._

_“Are you going to hurt me?” she says._

_“No,” I say. “I would never hurt you.”_

_Max grabs me by the throat and kisses me until the sun goes down._

I wake up at twenty after nine for a Vortex Club party that kicks off at eight. Max insists that I drive the speed limit all the way to Blackwell. For whatever reason, I decide to let her have it. When I roll into the parking lot, they’ve already got the place covered in toilet paper, traffic cones, and crushed beer cans. They’ve also tagged the shit out of everything in sight. I remember these parties being a lot less messy and confined to the insides of buildings, but this is what it’s come to. The halogen lamps thirty feet above us illuminate everything quite clearly, and yet the powers that be aren’t doing anything about it. Just like they didn’t do anything about Rachel.

Which is why I’m here.

“I hope Nathan enjoys his last party,” I say.

I check the magazine one last time and shove the gun up against my tail bone.

“I feel like maybe I should warn someone about the coming storm,” says Max.

“Who? The police in Nathan’s pocket? An alcoholic principal? Your smart-ass photography teacher? Mom and Dad back in Seattle? What, are they going to call up The Beacon with the latest news story: ‘Our Batshit Insane Daughter Predicts an Apocalypse Localized Entirely to the City of Arcadia Bay’? Don’t waste your time trying to convince the people around here that the world is anything but a vampire that sucks you dry and leaves your corpse to rot.”

“We can still go to the cops. We have physical evidence. They can’t ignore that.”

“Fuck physical evidence. The cops don’t take a shit without the Prescott stamp of approval. Not even Rachel’s dad can fuck with them. Rachel wanted us to find her so we could administer justice. The Prescotts have had this coming for a hundred years and I’m going to settle the score.” I turn to Max. “With your help. Right?”

She puts her hand on my shoulder.

“I’m with you to the end. You know that.”

“Good.”

I walk through the parking lot past clusters of drunk dumb-asses.

“Chloe, what the fuck is that?” calls Max. “Look up at the sky!”

I glance up at the night sky: the moon and a somewhat brighter, more ethereal version of the moon. I keep walking.

“So fucking what? They’re projecting an image of the moon up into the sky to fuck with people. ‘Am I really that drunk?’”

“Chloe, this is a bad sign, just like the snow, and the whales…”

“Beautiful, I don’t give a shit. The world is ending. Cool.”

We head up the stairs to the sidewalk that leads to the swimming hall, where more than once the Vortex Club has decided to drown themselves in booze and debauchery and bullshit.

“Welcome to the end of the world, ladies.” Oh, look, it’s drunk Warren with a bluish-black eye from that parking lot beatdown and a mostly empty cup of booze. Bombed off his ass, like a good he-bro should be at one of these events. “I’m glad you decided to escort me.”

“You look really good, Warren,” says Max.

“I’m glad you didn’t stop me,” says Warren. “Nathan is dangerous.”

“Where is he?” I say.

“I haven’t seen him since we locked horns. I was holed up in my room.”

“Have you been drinking?” says Max.

“Well, if you consider ‘half a beer’ drinking.”

“Let’s go, Max,” I say as I walk toward the swimming hall.

“Listen,” says Warren. “I know this is a bad time, but can I get just one picture? I’ve been feeling like this might actually be…”

When I get to the front door, Max is still back on the sidewalk taking a selfie with her secret admirer. I march back to the pair of lovebirds and grab Max by the wrist.

“We’ve got no time for this shit,” I say. She hands lover boy her pin-up. “Come on, Max.”

I take about two steps before Max jumps all over me and wraps her arms around my waist.

“Jesus, dude, what the fuck is with you?”

“I guess you guys need to talk,” says Warren. “No worries…it’s all good.”

“Chloe, listen…”

“Walk and talk.” I turn around and head toward Nathan’s last party on planet Earth. “We need to find Nathan, right fucking now.”

“Stop and listen for once!”

She digs her fingernails into my wrists and squeezes _really_ fucking hard.

“Ouch! Fucking shit. Fine, Max. I’m listening.”

“You can’t go into that party. You’re gonna die if you do.”

“You’re supposed to back me up, Max. You can’t let that punk ass Prescott bitch take me down.”

“No, Chloe. It’s not about Nathan. Mark Jefferson is going to kill you, just like he killed the others. The girls in the binders. Rachel.”

“Your photography teacher? Bullshit. He doesn’t even look like a murderer. We have fucking proof that Nathan is a serial killer. And now I’m going into that party to make sure he never hurts anyone again. Are you with me or not?”

“Nathan is dead,” says Max. “And you’re in danger.”

“Someone else popped a cap in his ass before I did? Fuck that. How do you even know that?”

“Because…I was there,” says Max. She looks down at her shoes. “Mark Jefferson was like a father to Nathan, teaching him how to capture girls’ innocence on camera before he disposed of them to make sure they would remain innocent.”

“Are you on drugs, Max? If that’s true, why is Kate still here?”

“Kate was so pure he wanted to bring her back for another session. Nathan was getting too out of control, so Jefferson got rid of him.”

“Boo hoo, rich kid got what he fucking deserved. I know it’s you, Max, but you’ve been acting really fucking weird lately.”

“I traveled back in time through a photograph, Chloe. I was in Jefferson’s dark room, the one that’s painted all white. It’s the truth. No matter how this goes down, if we meet Jefferson, you die. You have no idea what hell I went through to get you back here, but I couldn’t let you die. I can’t lose you again. I won’t!”

“I don’t what the fuck to say to that.”

“Do you know how it much it hurts when someone you love doesn’t believe you?”

“I mean…come on, Max. Fucking time travel, dude. What do you want me to say? That I believe all your stories and I’m totally willing to throw everything to chance just to prove that I’m on board with whatever the fuck is going on inside your head?”

“You saw the snow, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did. What does that prove?”

“I just…I keep fucking up all these alternate realities.”

Tears run down Max’s face. She hangs her head the same way she did when she sat at my bedside.

“Alternate realities? What do you mean?”

“I saw your Dad, Chloe. I went back through a photo of us as kids. I threw his car keys out into the back yard so he couldn’t find them and he had to take the bus. He got you a car for your birthday. You got into a car accident and you were paralyzed from the neck down. William and Joyce spent so much money trying to keep you alive, but your lungs were going to give out no matter what. You asked me to…” Tears run down her face faster than I can track. “…you asked me to end your life by giving you an overdose of morphine, so I did. I didn’t want to see you suffer. I never want to see you suffer. I did so much to bring you back here.”

“No fucking way. How does that even happen?”

“Jefferson is going to send you a text from Nathan’s phone. When we go to the junkyard, he kills you and drugs me. He takes me to his dark room, that room under the abandoned barn, and photographs me, just like he did to Rachel and Kate and all those girls. Then he kills me.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Chloe, listen: he said he got Rachel really high on drugs and she told him everything. She found out she had leukemia and she was probably gonna die. When you two ate in that restaurant, she was experiencing the effects of her illness before anybody ever knew she had it, even her. And she was heartbroken because you didn’t believe her when she told you she wasn’t doing cocaine any more.”

“Holy shit. Why would he even tell you that?”

“He was taunting me. He knows how much you mean to me.”

“That totally makes sense. But she would have told someone. Her parents would have…”

_Revenge. This is for hurting me._

I put the gun inside my jacket pocket. I put my hands on my beanie. I pace around with my eyes on my boots. I wrap Max up in the tightest embrace I can.

“I am so sorry, Max. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry I didn’t believe Rachel. I just…I don’t know anything else.”

“You’re the only person in the world who would believe me,” says Max. “That’s why you’re one in a million.”

David yells at me at first, when I pull up into the driveway. His face goes through contortions when I tell him what’s going on and ask for his help. His face goes stone cold when I hand him Nathan’s gun. He puts his hairy man-hands on my shoulders as gently as he can.

“You were right to come to me, Chloe. I’ve always been looking out for you. I need you and Max to go in the house and stay there. I’ll take care of the rest. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We can do that.”

“Good. I’ll move your truck and start making calls. This is going to be a busy night.”

Max and I head into the house. We don’t sleep at all.


	54. Chapter 54

_“We’ve got a massive E6 twister coming in from the ocean right now. It looks to be about six hours out, but residents are advised to begin taking emergency precautions immediately. The city of Arcadia Bay has declared an emergency. Several locations have been designated as shelters; police are out in force directing pedestrians. Transportation is available for those who require mobility assistance. All other residents are advised not to travel unless absolutely necessary.”_

“Max, are you okay?”

She hasn’t said a word all night. She must be in shock. I’ve been to the bathroom to retch a couple of times, but otherwise, I feel like a specter, a spirit, a being made of gas and light and stars who no longer needs to eat or drink or sleep. My body just doesn’t want to do any of those things right now—I keep thinking about Rachel and the asshole who killed her and what David’s doing. I hope he can convince the cops to actually believe him so they can nail Jefferson’s ass to the cross.

The sun comes up. I open my window. Strong breezes flood in. I look over at my mattress. Max is sleeping. Shit. Blood’s coming out of her nose again. I run to the bathroom to grab some toilet paper. When I come back, there’s blood all over my comforter. Max sits up with her eyes open wide. I dab at the blood on her septum, ringing her nostrils, dripping from her chin.

“We need to go to the lighthouse,” she says. “It’s the only safe place.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Everything else is going to be destroyed.”

“What if I lose you?”

I look out the window for the hundredth time. Tendrils of blackness snake their way through dark, billowing clouds.

“I’ll always be with you,” says Max. “I’m never leaving you.”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” This is going to take an entire roll of toiler paper to clean up. “Okay, Max. Okay.”

I shove my shaking hands under my armpits. It doesn’t do me any good. Max’s eyes stare into mine with all the serenity in the world.

“Jesus. Fuck it. I’m calling Mom again.”

I run into the bathroom and toss the crumpled up toilet paper into the wastebasket. I whip out my phone, thumb Mom’s smiling face, and walk back to my room. It rings three times before she picks up.

“Mom?” I say. “Mom. You need to leave town. The tornado is going to rip everything to shreds.”

“Calm down,” says Mom. “We’re going to take shelter in the diner’s storage room. It’s withstood plenty of storms, including some pretty bad ones. We’ve got food and water down here.”

“Mom, it’s bigger than that. It’s going to tear up everything including the shelters.”

“Calm down, honey. Are you still at home? You come straight to the diner. We’ll be safe here.”

“Mom, I’m serious.”

“I know you’re scared, Chloe. Just come to the diner. I’m going to send the police to pick you up and—”

My phone cuts out. The sky outside is dark grey now. Gusts of wind blow through my room, sending papers flying. Some of the posters on my walls look like they’re about ready to come off.

“We have to go to the lighthouse,” says Max. “It’s the only safe place.”

“Shit! Fine. Fine. Let’s fucking go.”

We get whipped around on the roads that lead to the lighthouse. A couple of police officers try to wave me down and direct me with their orange flags, but I ignore them. When we arrive at the bottom of the hill, Max has passed out again. No blood coming from her nose, this time. I shake her gently, which is exactly what you’re not supposed to do when someone’s unconscious, but that’s only when the alternative isn’t death.

“Max. Max! Wake up. We’re at the lighthouse.”

A gust of wind hits the driver’s side door and lifts the left wheels of the truck off the ground for a second.

“Shit!”

I slam against the thin padding of the seat as the truck thuds back onto the ground. I climb over Max, open up the passenger door, clamber out, and make a mess out of trying to pick her up. Eventually, I’m doing a fireman’s carry. Princess-style just isn’t going to cut it this time.

I’m bent over like a hunch-backed grandma carrying Max’s scrawny body up the hill. The wind blasts us from all directions, doing its best to send us both down the hill like a couple of bowling balls. I almost trip more than once—loose rocks and tree branches skitter about on the dirt path.

When we make it to the top of the hill, I set Max down against the old oak tree as gently as I can. The wind isn’t quite as bad up here, but it’s started to rain pretty hard—and that’s saying something in a place where it rains every other goddamn day, where people get playful grief for carrying umbrellas in public. Well, there’s no umbrella big enough for this absolutely motherfucking massive Wizard of Oz shit spinning itself into a frenzy out in the middle of the ocean. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, bigger than the entire city of Arcadia Bay. I guess I didn’t really grasp the impact of exactly what Max was talking about until now, when it’s up close and personal.

“Whoa,” says Max.

Her face is inches from mine.

“Max, are you back? Is that the real you?”

“Is that the real Chloe?”

Max palms her forehead and smiles.

“Damn right it is,” I say.

“Oh, man, it’s so good to see you.”

She hugs me. I hug her.

“It’s good to see you, too, Max. How was your coma?”

“You’re alive,” she says. “Both of us are.”

The rain picks up. The wind swirls around us. The ocean heaves itself against the rocks below us. The sky is slowly turning from dark grey to pitch black.

“I wouldn’t blame you for wanting me out of your life, after all my drama,” I say.

“Come on,” says Max. “I’m the official Drama King and Queen of Arcadia Bay this week. You don’t even know the half of it.”

Mist from the waves below hits us all the way up here.

“I have no idea what the hell’s been going on with you lately,” I say, “but all I see when I look at you is a friend who’s been there for me over the last five days to make up for five years of being gone. Nobody could have a better, more loyal friend. You accepted whatever life threw at you, and you came out on top. You need to accept how awesome you are.”

“I always wanted my life to be an adventure,” Max says. “But not without you. We were meant to be together at this exact moment in time.”

Max looks out toward the ocean. The sky has gone pitch black, lit up by occasional flashes of white-blue, tendril-like forks of lightning. The massive ocean vortex churning toward the city resembles a stack of coal-colored spinning plates piled up high into the sky.

“This is my storm,” Max says. “I caused all of this. I messed around with time so much that I actually altered the fundamental nature of fate and destiny. And all it's leading to is death and destruction.”

“You want to blame someone?” I say. “Blame Rachel. Tell yourself she was pissed off about being taken before her time. She was taken by a life that doesn’t care who or what you are. I understand that now. Things happen to people for no reason. I don’t agree with it. I don’t even accept it. But here I am, whether I accept it or not.”

I put my hands on her arms. She looks into my eyes, down at the grass slick with heavy rain, out into the inky blackness of the thunderclouds that hang over the sea like a sword of Damocles.

“When you came back to Arcadia Bay,” I say, “I made a conscious decision to tell you about the shitty truth of reality so you wouldn’t have to face it by yourself.”

I take out the photo of the butterfly I've been keeping in my jacket since I reunited with Max. I show it to her.

“I keep this with me to remind me of you,” I say. “Instead of, you know, an actual picture of you.”

“Symbolism,” says Max. “It can be just as powerful as the real thing. Sometimes even more powerful.”

“Max, you’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Even Rachel?”

“Even Rachel.”

Even a tornado can’t keep her eyes off mine.

“The night after we went for a swim,” I say, “Rachel came for me. She was as pale as death. She rowed us across the ocean, back to where you were sleeping in my bedroom.”

“Rachel brought you back.”

“ _You_ brought me back. You brought us to this moment. Rachel was guiding us the entire time, making sure you were in the right place at the right time so you could be there for me, because she knows how much you mean to me. Our time together these last five days was Rachel’s gift to us.”

I take her face in my hands and kiss her with everything that’s left inside me. I kiss her until thunder shakes the ground beneath us and pulls us apart. I grab onto her soaked grey hoodie and pull her in close. I brush her wet bangs away from her forehead.

“It’s time for me to go,” I say. I hand her the photo of the butterfly. “I accept my fate. You accept my fate. This never happens. I was never here.”

“No way,” she says. She tries to push me away, but I don’t let her go. “No fucking way.”

“A butterfly doesn’t show up out of nowhere for no reason, Max. The bathroom, my truck in the parking lot, your book bag when we were up here and it was snowing. This is the way things were meant to be. You said you traveled back in time through a photo of me and you when Dad was alive. You hid the car keys from him so he had to take the bus to pick up Mom. Dad was never killed in a car accident. Instead, I suffered. And you were there to help me accept my fate: a life with you, no matter how brief our time together was meant to be. And now, I’m here with you, staring down the biggest tornado anyone has ever seen, because you used your powers to save me from Nathan’s anger in the bathroom, from Jefferson, from fate. This butterfly—this is my fate. This tornado—this is my fate. But it’s not yours. It’s not anyone else’s. They don’t deserve this, no matter how dispassionate life and fate may be.”

“I can't do this without you.” If Max is sobbing, I can't see it in the rain or hear it over the crashing thunder. “I won’t trade you.”

“I realize now—I didn't think about what everyone must have been going through. I didn't stop to consider what David might be looking for. I never said ‘thank you’ to Mom for working all those extra hours in the diner, for paying my tuition at Blackwell, for treating me with kindness until I broke her resolve. You show up after five years and I set you on a week-long mission that ends with us watching the town get ripped to shreds, just like I wished for. Max...” I lift her chin up with my fingertips. “This is my fate. This is what's supposed to happen.”

“Fuck that! Fuck all that! You are all that matters to me now!”

“Max, whatever happens to me after this, whatever reality I end up in, all those moments between us were real, and they’ll always be ours.”

“Chloe, I…”

She shakes her head, puts her hands on top of her hair, drops them to her sides, looks up at me.

“Do what you know is right,” I say.

“I don’t…I don’t want to.”

I let my hand rest on the black string tied around her wrist.

“You made this decision once before, Max. If you really love me, you need to let go.”

Max stands there for an eternity. Then, she turns around, walks to the edge of the cliff, and stares at the photograph of the butterfly. Her hands drop to her sides. The photograph flies out of her hands. It whirls around in the air before disappearing into blackness.

“Max…I’ll always be with you.”

I walk to the place where she once stood and watch, transfixed, immobile, powerless as the reality I grew up in ceases to exist.


	55. Chapter 55

The place where Rachel used to live atop Greenfriars Road, just up the hill from the country club, is no longer a woodworker’s stained glass wet dream: it looks like Paul Bunyan took a split log shit and swung his axe through it. My house has been straight up flattened, the diner has been crushed with the only the letters “DIE” still left standing, and everything else is going to remain a memory because I find myself eternally drawn to the lighthouse atop the cliff overlooking the rolling ocean waves. No matter how hard I try, I can never seem to escape it.

Two sundowns and three sunups later, Max appears from the woods that lead down to the bottom of the cliff. She tells me she has Rachel’s lacquered black coffin in the back of my truck. She picked it up from the refrigerated morgue in Tillamook after the authorities were done performing forensics on her corpse and came to the conclusion that since everybody who ever hurt her is also dead and buried, they have nothing further to examine or cross-examine. Case closed. I don’t feel like driving, so I walk in front of my truck as Max drives it at snail’s pace past downed branches and unbound logs and that pesky fork in the trail halfway up the hill that’s been the undoing of more than one all-terrain vehicle. Max cruises through it like a champ, picking up so much speed that I have to jump off to one side and let her come to a jerking stop at the crest of the hill. Her backing maneuvers are much more graceful—she brings the rear of my truck to rest just a couple inches shy of the utility shed not far from the lighthouse.

“Right here,” I say to Max through the rolled down window. “This will give her a good view of the ocean.”

Max and I grab shovels from the back of the truck. We stab at the cold dirt and start turning it over, one handful at a time. It’s slow and exhausting, but our bodies get used to it. After a while, the hole is up to our waists. We shove the heavy coffin across the ridged bed of my truck. It’s hard work, but we’re able to lay Rachel in her final resting place without too much trouble. I kneel down on the backs of my legs and put my hand on the cask’s ornate cover.

“I know you wouldn’t want a lengthy goodbye.” Actually, she’d probably want us to fawn over her, but I don’t think I’d be able to keep it together if I did that. “We’ll see you again some day. We’ll come back and visit in May, when winter flowers bloom, and in October, when the wind swirls leaves into the colorful patterns you loved so much.”

Those are the best words I have. An incandescent blue butterfly perches on the lip of the hole we dug in the earth. It flies away when Max opens her eyes. We fill in Rachel’s grave.

“Let’s plant the daffodils,” Max says.

“You brought flowers? You shouldn’t have.”

“They’re not for you.”

We kneel down and seed them in thick rows along with some fertilizer. These are winter flowers, the kind that don’t need to be watered until spring. Max wanted to have something pretty to cover up the ugly place we had to put Rachel’s body. I head over to the bench and take a load off my aching legs. Max walks up to the bench and puts her hands on the back of it just as I’m about to light up. I flip the cap on the lighter and put the cigarette back in the pack. I take a folded sheet of paper out of my pocket.

“I wrote a poem for you,” I say.

“Let’s hear it.”

I stand at the edge of my life in the direct  
path of a storm at the intersection of disbelief  
and imagination where nineteen years from now  
we will look down at the flowered ground and  
wonder aloud why love was not enough

I am an ocean of love and grief so deep that  
an army of whales would take fifteen years to swim  
through me and would not even then reach the  
depths of what I feel for you

I am an incandescent flame in the shape of a  
woman trying desperately to assume a form  
that loves without burning for the relief  
of the untouched body the reconstitution of  
a fragmented mind and the reconstruction  
of a shattered soul

“My aspiring beat poet,” Max says.

“Aspiring.”

Golden-hued ocean waves sweep in toward the shore, where they break themselves against an unmoving rock face.

“I never got to read your diary,” I say. “What did you write about?”

Max runs her fingers through the mop of brown hair she used to hold in place with a headband.

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you for so long,” she says.

“You’re here for me now, when I need you most. That’s all that matters. And now, we’ll always be together. Wherever you are, I’ll be with you.”

A voice calls out from the ocean. We walk to the cliff’s edge. A small yacht appears below us, heading out toward the setting sun. Rachel stands on the deck in her red and black shirt, hoisting a sail in the gentle winds. She turns and waves to me like a little kid. I wave back. So does Max.

“You see her, Max?”

“Of course I do. She looks so happy.”

“You should take a photograph.”

“It wouldn’t do me any good.”

Max turns to me. Tears fall from her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” I ask.

“When I wake up, you’ll be gone.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I told you to do that, didn’t I?”

Rachel’s blue feather earring sparkles in the setting sunlight as she jumps up and down, waving her arms at me, inviting me down into her yacht to sail away with her like we always wanted to. Memories and fragments dance through my head with the graceful movements of a life that’s never been hurt, never been abused, never been abandoned. Max’s sparkling, sapphire eyes ask me a question I already know the answer to.

“She brought me back to you,” I say. “And now, she’s done.”

I blow Rachel a kiss and take a step back. Rachel waves one last time and sits down on a small bench at the helm of her vessel. Her hair flutters like an angel’s wings in the breeze.

“You got to say goodbye,” says Max. “Some people don’t get to do that.”

“Some people don’t know they’re saying goodbye.”

And with that, Max is gone, until the next time we see each other. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these nights, she asks Mom if she can sleep on my mattress just for old time’s sake. I think I’d like that. I sit back down on the bench and stare out at the sun. Rachel’s yacht sails into the distance.

Tommy takes a seat on my right, offers me a piece of wrapped candy. Butterscotch. That’ll do.

There’s a hand on my left shoulder—warm, fatherly, gentle. Dad sits down next to me in his red and black workman’s shirt, the one he’d wear on weekends when he liked to potter about the house fixing things. Max and I would run around after him, pretending that we were reanimating lawn mowers and household appliances with forbidden pirate voodoo. I lean back into Dad’s chest and take in the scent of his hair. I haven’t felt this safe in a long, long time.

Just as she’s about to fade from view, Rachel returns my kiss. She’s far, far away, but the ocean does me the kindness of sending it to me on the breeze. A stirring within my soul takes my breath away. An image of the railroad tracks that run past the junkyard. Max in her grey hoodie with her dark blue book bag hanging from the strap on her shoulder. She walks atop a railroad tie, balancing herself with her arms held out at her sides. Behind her, a blue butterfly flits along in the autumn wind, watching over her steps.

 _Remember me_ , the wind whispers.

“I’ll never forget you,” I say.


End file.
